


Wait For Me Somewhere Between Reality and All We’ve Ever Dreamed

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Series: Stay Another Day [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Car Accidents, Drug Addiction, Drug withdrawl, F/M, Gen, Hospitalisation, In Mention, M/M, Overdose, Past Drug Addiction, Referenced Drug Use, The Irish Troubles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:24:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man doesn’t look like he should be there. He doesn’t fit in, and somehow – maybe because of that – he does.<br/>Grantaire stretches out his fingers, they clicked and creak as he does. He can feel the movement travelling through them, setting off small spasms as it does.<br/>He looks at the man again. He’s tall, slim with golden blond hair pulled back into a pony tail off his face. His face, it looks like something carved from marble, perhaps describing a god or some kind of faery creature. His lips are full, his cheekbones sharp, his eyes large and framed in lashes. His hands – long fingered and smooth – tap against his jeans, peeking out from under a bright red winter jacket that looks far too new, far too expensive.<br/>He doesn’t look like an addict.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting A God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Grantaire?” Jehan asks, as the door clicks shut.  
> “Present and correct.”  
> “That took a while.”  
> “I met a God.”

The bonnet of the car reflects a hundred different ways the light from above. It shouldn’t, but it’s crumpled like tinfoil, almost as if, if he touched it, it would fold again.  
He can’t remember exactly what happened. There was a squealing of brakes, a flash of lights that made his glance round, blinded him.  
Then he was here.  
He can hear doors slamming somewhere in the distance, and the car’s radio is still playing some song from the 80s that he thinks he might have liked once, thinks he hasn’t heard in years.  
The driver, he can see the driver now, a cut long his forehead, nose dripping red over his lips.  
And the guy is high. He’s high… He can tell through those erratic movements and too fast words that he can’t quite hide. And they keep repeating over and over like a mantra ‘S-Shit! I- I don’t know what- What should I- How can I- What can I-‘ And none of the questions have ends. None of the questions have answers.  
His laughter tastes like blood. 

~~~

The man doesn’t look like he should be there. He doesn’t fit in, and somehow – maybe because of that – he does.  
Grantaire stretches out his fingers, they clicked and creak as he does. He can feel the movement travelling through them, setting off small spasms as it does.  
He looks at the man again. He’s tall, slim with golden blond hair pulled back into a pony tail off his face. His face, it looks like something carved from marble, perhaps describing a god or some kind of faery creature. His lips are full, his cheekbones sharp, his eyes large and framed in lashes. His hands – long fingered and smooth – tap against his jeans, peeking out from under a bright red winter jacket that looks far too new, far too expensive.  
He doesn’t look like an addict.  
Grantaire knows addicts, he knows too many of them, too many people who are less themselves more the drugs flowing through their system.  
He knows how it feels, he knows how it looks.  
He knows…  
The man glances up and Grantaire’s eyes move so fast it hurts. The seat next to him creaks with a new weight, the shuffling of cloth then a voice, soft yet commanding, with a radiance that he can’t put into words.  
“I’ve not seen you before.”  
“Not my usual slot.” He can see red out of the corner of his eyes, gold hair braiding the shoulders. “You don’t have to make small talk.”  
“I’m aware. I’d still like to make small talk, if you don’t mind of course?”  
“I have nothing else to do.” Grantaire sighs and stretches again.  
“Are you an artist, just I noticed you have paint.” The man gestures to his cheek.  
“Oh! I was… My room-mate and I-“ He can feel the paint in his hair when he moves to push it off his face. “Yeah…”

He arrives back in the flat late, the clinic running over on its slots. It left a lot of time for talking, for learning everything you can about a person but still not knowing anything at all.  
He’s decided to call the guy Apollo, not that he told him of course.  
The shower’s running, he wanders into the bathroom, avoiding a pile of papers Jehan’s left next to the sofa and the canvases that look set to fall over if anyone steps within a 2 metre radius.  
The bathroom is full of steam, it goes to his head and makes his nose burn slightly. He plonks himself down on the closed toilet seat.

 

“Grantaire?” Jehan asks, as the door clicks shut.  
“Present and correct.”  
“That took a while.”  
“I met a God.”  
“A what..?” Jehan pauses mid-way through lathering his hair, it falls down his back and drips bubbles in slow lines. “Are you talking literally here or..?” Because it’s entirely possible, anything is entirely possible when your roommate comes back late from somewhere, when this was only his second session and when this is the first day he’s felt good enough to go out of the house at all.  
“Not like that.” Grantaire sighs and Jehan can imagine him resting his chin on his hand and pouting in that way he does. “At the clinic. I’m telling you this guy… You could write poems about him Jehan and you wouldn’t even have to try. He looks like a statue, an oil painting and his hair is like a halo of golden thread…”  
“Slow down, slow down.” Jehan unsticks the shower curtain from his leg and scrubs at the paint on his arms, washing away in reds and greens and blues from the patterns and trails beneath. “You met a God at the addiction clinic?”  
“Yeah. And it’s killing me.”  
“Why?”  
“Why do you think? It’s a clinic Jehan, he’s an addict too. You know that’s not going to work.”  
“There have been worse.”  
“There’s not even anything to start. Names would be but come on… Besides the fact that I can’t deal with that, he probably couldn’t either.”  
“You deal with me.”  
“That’s different and you know it.” There’s the sound of Grantaire getting up, a clunk as he leans on the sink then a sigh. Jehan can imagine him, watching the mirror as he often does, with dark circles that have dug themselves in around pale eyes that are run through with miniscule capillaries. He can imagine the grimace turning his thin lips and creasing his cheeks. “I look like shit. There’s no way he’d want to go for me even if there was a chance.”  
The tap squeaks as Jehan turns it, the air cold around him. He shivers slightly, grabs a towel and ties it around his waist. Grantaire’s still staring into the mirror, hands braced against the sink a he stares at himself.  
“Then he is the stupidest guy I know.” Jehan murmurs, arms snaking around Grantaire’s waist. Grantaire’s eyebrow raises, almost imperceptibly, but his lips stay pressed into a frown.  
“You don’t have to say that you know, I’m not going to throw you out.”  
“I don’t think I have to say it at all. I rather enjoy saying it actually.” He smiles, resting his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Because sometimes I think you need reminding of just how great you are.” He presses his lips to the bare skin of Grantaire’s shoulder, brushing away his curls. “And also how good paint is…”  
“You still thinking about that?” Grantaire snorts, but he’s smiling now.  
“It took forever to get the paint out of my hair, I had a long while to think about it.” His teeth skim over his lip.  
“Are you-“  
“I promise I’m not.”  
Grantaire sighs.  
“And you can say whatever name you want.” That’s the agreement, somewhere in the middle of all this, there is some arrangement to it.  
“Let me dry your hair first. You’re soaked.”

~~~

It had started on a ferry, somewhere between boredom and having the cheap seats and it beginning to bucket it down as they made their way across the sea the pair had met. Grantaire was smoking a cigarette, standing as close to the wall as possible as the wind tried with all its might to put his cigarette out. Jehan had edged toward him, failed to light his own cigarette and then made a comment about how only smokers would be crazy enough to come out in this weather.  
‘You’ve got to do it like this.’ The man had said, offering up his own lighter and cupping his hands around the end of Jehan’s cigarette. His accent was heavier than Jehan’s own, cutting into his r’s and o’s, his hands were freckled, cold and he’d glanced up from the flame with almost turquoise eyes, pale behind his lashes.  
‘T’anks.’ A pause as they both breathed. ‘You on holiday?’  
The man snorted. ‘I wish. Just need to find a life fer myself, and there ain’t anything left for me here.’  
‘Huh… I know how you feel.’ Jehan stared at the retreating coast of the country they were leaving behind them.  
‘What’s your name anyway? I’ve not asked yet.’  
‘Jehan. And yours?’  
‘Grantaire.’  
‘That’s not a first name..?” Jehan glances across.  
‘You’re correct, but it is what I’d prefer to be called. Ciaran Niall Grantaire.’ He stoops in a mock bow. ‘At your service.’  
‘Seán, if we’re doing proper names. Seán Prouvaire.’  
‘May I ask how you get Jehan from that?’  
‘Uh… Well my Grandmother on my father’s side was French and it always sounded like Jean, which I preferred. Jehan is the medieval version and this sounds a little bit stupid…’  
‘I’m using my surname as a given name, yours sounds a lot less stupid than mine.’ Grantaire smiles around his cigarette. ‘Where you from?’  
‘Pallasgreen. Limerick.’ He adds.  
‘Supposed home of the Goddess of Love is it not?’  
‘It is.’ Jehan’s smile is coy. ‘And you?’  
‘Ahiohill, but been in Bantry for quite a few years now.’  
‘A Cork lad?’ Grantaire shrugs, stubbing out his cigarette beneath his toe.  
Jehan’s still not sure how it happens but somewhere between cigarettes, meeting each other in the dining hall and bemoaning the horrific uncomfortable feeling of the seats they’d been relegated to by virtue of a lack of money they’d ended up in a unisex toilet on deck 9, Jehan’s face buried in Grantaire’s shoulder as he moans against his skin and Grantaire’s nails leaving lines on his hips. 

The sky is blue in Swansea, Jehan breathes in the air, the smell of the sea and of the engines of ships all mixing in the breeze.  
‘Wondered if I’d run into you again.’ Grantaire places his hand on the rail, in a way that’s almost possessive, leaning against it in front of him.  
‘It’s hardly a big ship. And there are fewer who are intending to walk from the dock side.’  
‘What’re you gonna do?’  
‘I haven’t a clue.’  
Grantaire glances over his shoulder to where the sun is making its way over the outline of the city.  
‘I was thinking London…’  
The sky is black before the gangplank is lowered, everything silhouetted below them. They only have three bags between them, Grantaire hauls his backpack over his shoulder and slings his arm around Jehan.  
It starts raining almost as soon as they step off the gangplank, the whooshing sound that comes just before a storm sounding only a moment before. They laugh as the run to the bus stop, hand in hand and they’re both soaked by the end of the sprint. They bend double, hair dripping, beneath the scant shelter. The bus smells of must and cigarette smoke, the train after similarly. The wind whistles down the platform as they wait for it, spraying rain at their feet and occasionally whipping Jehan’s still soaked hair into his face. They manage to get a table seat, once the train arrives – half an hour late – as it’s early still, the train holding a few weary travellers and business men.  
‘I never asked,’ Jehan leans on his chin on his hands. Grantaire’s foot, now bare, rests against his own, toes stroking the skin of his ankle. ‘What do you do for a living?’  
‘I’m an artist, a painter specifically, but I mostly do sketches – more portable.’ Grantaire shrugs slightly.  
‘You make a living out of that?’  
‘Well… I sometimes go to the neighbouring towns, do a few sketches, see if there’s any interest. People love that sort of stuff see, when they’re on holiday, get your portrait done, buy a picture of a pretty view… Did some water-colour over the summer too until… Well.’ He makes a vague gesture toward the window. ‘But I bartend to pay rent. Lovely little place down by the sea front called The Snug. Absolutely tiny but… Very friendly.’ Grantaire smiles fondly. ‘What about you? How did you pay rent?’  
‘I worked in a bookshop. Spent a lot of it reading… Or, uh, writing.’  
‘You write?’ Grantaire’s eye light up in a genuine interest.  
‘Poetry.’ Jehan glances down shyly.  
‘That’s pretty fascinating.’ The rain spatters the window next to them, and the pair jump, then laugh at themselves. ‘You don’t think this is a sign do you?’ Grantaire leans his chin back on his hands.  
‘I sure hope not.’

‘Could I sketch you?’ Grantaire asks a little while later as Jehan stares out at the passing Welsh countryside.  
‘I wouldn’t be interesting to sketch.’  
‘Are you kidding?’ Grantaire places a hand on his heart in shock. ‘Have you seen yourself? Come on, please?’  
Grantaire eventually persuades him and they sit in companionable silence as he sketches and Jehan watches towns go by.  
They find themselves in Waterloo, unwilling to leave their drafty spot beneath the clock for the rain outside.  
‘I hadn’t really planned from here.’ Grantaire admits, watching as the train times change and flicker and crowds’ part around them in waves. Jehan wiggles his toes in his damp shoes, feeling water pool beneath their curves. He’s starting to cool down now, dampness sticking to him, his hair, his socks, his jeans. He wants to be warm, to be dry, to have an actual bed to sleep on.  
They agree on finding a hotel, it’s a cheap place, their room has no windows and the bed looks hardly big enough for one. Still, it’s warm-ish and it’s dry and Jehan stretches out his feet against the worn out carpets as Grantaire makes them drinks from the tiny kettle in the corner of the room. They curl up together on the sofa, and Grantaire tops up his coffee from his hipflask with a murmur of ‘at least then it’ll be palatable.’  
Grantaire continues sketching, then pulls out a thin tin of almost worn through water-colours, applying them lightly to the drawing in washes and shadows.  
The first thing Jehan does is find a frame for it, it’s cheap but it makes do. He thinks it’s beautiful, the faraway look in his eyes, the lines of his hair and his hands. He especially likes the washed out effect of the colours, the greyish tinge of the day washing over his usually bright hair, and the blue of his jumper.  
They never intended on actually living together, and yet through every move from hotel to hotel, flat to flat, even nights spent huddled together under bus shelters and bridges, they’ve somehow stuck together. 

~~~

“Draw him for me.” Jehan rolls onto Grantaire’s chest later, leaning his chin on his hand. Grantaire reaches up to tuck a lock of auburn hair behind Jehan’s ear. Jehan smiles, taking his little finger into his mouth.  
“Draw who?”  
“Your Apollo, I want to see what he looks like. This ‘God’.” He pulls his lip between his teeth. “Please?”  
“I couldn’t do him justice.”  
“You could do anyone justice. Go on.” He plants a kiss on Grantaire’s jaw. “You’re obviously thinking about him.”  
“Why’d you say that?” Grantaire’s back arches, just slightly and Jehan smiles against his skin.  
“Well I’m obviously not Apollo, I hope you’d know me better than that.” He plants another kiss, just below Grantaire’s ear, carding his fingers through his curls.  
“If you’re so desperate chuck me my sketchbook.”  
They share a cigarette as Grantaire sketches, lines gradually forming together in sharp cheekbones and a pronounced cupid’s bow and soft flowing curls.  
“Jaysus, if you’re not doing him justice then I definitely want to meet this guy…” Grantaire plucks the cigarette from between his fingers as Jehan pulls the sketchbook slightly more into his line of vision. The man is stunning, he looks tall, all long legs and slender limbs, his face is soft yet defined. “He’s blond you say?”  
“And his coat was red. Imagine that for a moment.” Jehan whistles.  
“Apollo indeed… D’ya think he has a brother?”  
“Only child.”  
“Damn.” Jehan pouts. “Why do you have such an eye for men? And women come to that…”  
“What?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow, taking back the sketchbook to add more shading to Apollo’s coat.  
“Let’s see… There was Charles from Oxford who fell for your rugged Irish charms.”  
“More like Charles who wanted to explore a new lifestyle.”  
“Michael.”  
“Really?”  
“I liked him.” Jehan shrugs. “Montparnasse. Come on.”  
“We shared him. Or did you ferget?”  
“How could I?” Jehan smirks. Grantaire snorts, hitting him on the arm. “But seriously Grantaire,” Jehan sits up properly and leans his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder. “You need to go for it, he’s playing on your mind.”  
“I don’t know…” Grantaire taps the end of his pencil against his lip, eyes fixed on the sketch that’s proper up against his knees.  
“If you don’t I will.”


	2. A View of the Thames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m home!” Enjolras calls as the door unlocks. Combeferre blows across the top of his tea before he replies.  
> “You’re late.” Enjolras glances up from where he’s un-winding his scarf.  
> “They just ran over, they rescheduled a few people and then… Everything just kind of got delayed.” Enjolras pulls off his coat, as he speaks, shaking it out. He pauses halfway through hanging it, fingers clenching around the material of the collar. Combeferre can see him trying to figure out what to say, in the sigh that raises his shoulders and the furrowing of his brow and the way he presses his lips together in a thin line. “I met someone.” He says eventually.  
> “At clinic?”  
> Enjolras nods, bringing his hand to his mouth in a gesture that’s almost bashful.  
> “I know it sounds kind of crazy, but he was really nice.” Combeferre looks at him for a moment, as Enjolras looks down, chewing on his lip.  
> “Tell me about him.”

“I’m home!” Enjolras calls as the door unlocks. Combeferre blows across the top of his tea before he replies.  
“You’re late.” Enjolras glances up from where he’s un-winding his scarf.  
“’Ferre…”  
“Did you?”  
“No!” He looks back down, working on his buttons. “You don’t trust me do you?”  
“I do Enjolras. I just have to check, you understand don’t you?”  
“I’m sorry.” Enjolras murmurs, so quietly Combeferre barely hears.  
“What happened then?” Combeferre asks, because he doesn’t want Enjolras to look like that anymore, so guilty and hurt all at once.  
“They just ran over, they rescheduled a few people and then… Everything just kind of got delayed.” Enjolras pulls off his coat, as he speaks, shaking it out. He pauses halfway through hanging it, fingers clenching around the material of the collar. Combeferre can see him trying to figure out what to say, in the sigh that raises his shoulders and the furrowing of his brow and the way he presses his lips together in a thin line. “I met someone.” He says eventually.  
“At clinic?”  
Enjolras nods, bringing his hand to his mouth in a gesture that’s almost bashful.  
“I know it sounds kind of crazy, but he was really nice.” Combeferre looks at him for a moment, as Enjolras looks down, chewing on his lip.  
“Tell me about him.” Combeferre smiles, gesturing to the seat next to him. Enjolras nods, kicking off his shoes and curling up on the sofa.  
“He’s an Artist.” He starts. “He was, he was looking at me and when I glanced up he did that thing you always see in the films, you know when people look round so quickly you’re surprised they haven’t got whiplash?” He nods, sipping his tea. “So I went over to talk to him and he had paint.” He places his fingers against his cheek. “And a red streak through his hair and he told me his roommate had interrupted him earlier while he was painting. He told me a lot about his roommate actually… But ‘Ferre he seems so nice. And he’s – He’s Irish. He’s from this place called… Ahiohill? Which I’ve never heard of before in my life but it sounds so wonderful. He met his roommate on the ferry across to England and they decided to start a life over here together… Well not together but… Anyway we had a really nice talk.”  
“You bring up politics?” Combeferre nudges him. Enjolras laughs quietly.  
“There were no newspapers, and it seemed like a bit of a random thing to bring up.”  
“You didn’t exchange names then?”  
“It’s a clinic, most people don’t like… They called him R. ‘Ferre I know what you’re thinking-“  
“I’m thinking you’re blushing and I haven’t seen you this excited about someone since you met Feuilly at the shelter.”  
“But I don’t know if I’m ever going to see him again, it wasn’t his usual slot… You’re now thinking I getting too involved aren’t you?”  
“I know what you’re like.” Combeferre pats Enjolras’s arm. “And yes I worry about that but… Finding someone might be good for you.” Enjolras doesn’t look convinced. “You seem to really get on with him.”  
“It was one conversation.” Combeferre can see him, almost physically, restraining himself, his passions, his feelings about this man. It tugs at his brows, makes him blink more, makes his lips almost vanish into white as he presses them together and worries them with his teeth. His hands rub over each other, fingers fitting against his knuckles. Combeferre reaches to still them.  
“Why don’t you see what happens? Courfeyrac’s coming round after he finishes work, I heard he has a new beau so he may not shut up – just to warn you.”  
“Who’s he managed to nab this time?”  
“No a clue. Probably a client knowing him.”  
“A client with an exceptionally nice apartment that would fit all of his furniture perfectly and has a most wonderful view of the Thames?” Enjolras smiles, and there’s a hint of a laugh in his voice.  
“He’ll protest that he only slept with one client and that they enticed him.”  
“I know, he knows we’re joking right? He does doesn’t he because I would want him-“  
“Enjolras.”  
“Sorry.” Enjolras glances down at his hands.  
“No, no sorry. I like it when we can talk like this, or when you worry about if Courfeyrac knows how much he means to you and if you show that enough or thank him enough for everything he does when he knows it so, so well.” Combeferre pauses. “Especially when you had such a painfully obvious crush on him when you first met.”  
“I didn’t-“ Enjolras protests, then rephrases. “… Make it that obvious did I?” He’s gone red, the pink of his ears and the flush creeping up his neck meeting in the middle of his cheeks.  
“I think Courfeyrac has an eye.”

If asked Combeferre he’d say he didn’t remember how Enjolras became addicted, to little pills that numbed the body and stilled the mind. In reality he’s all too painfully aware.  
It had been a tough time, for all of them. There were university exams to be sat, a group to be run, a protest to organise. Enjolras was volunteering at a shelter in his non-existent free time.  
It had been at the protest that he’d been injured. Already stressed, sleep deprived and God knows what else he’d got caught up somewhere, somewhere Combeferre couldn’t find him until later, arm hanging limply at his side as he clutched his shoulder. He was crying, but Combeferre still doesn’t think it was from pain.  
Arm broken in three places, elbow also damaged.  
‘I can’t ‘Ferre, I have so much to do I can’t be-‘ Enjolras winced, going white and grey and green.  
‘You need to.’  
Enjolras was a nervous person, passionate at the same time and those passions over ran every now and then until he burnt himself out. He already felt he was failing his group before the protest. The arrests, injury, everything played with his mind. Combeferre could see it in the stares that were directed at the wall of their flat, the one with the newspaper clippings.  
He’d been the one to suggest going to a psychiatrist, for passions that had grown, mutated into spates of anxiety that somehow he’d failed, somehow this was his fault.  
They’d helped, but perhaps it was the pain medication instead. Enjolras said they helped. He’d come off them a month after the pain medication, once he was well enough to broach the subject to.  
‘I can’t- Not without them… Please don’t ‘Ferre.’  
‘Enjolras they can be just as-‘  
‘I know! I need them, just for a little longer… I can’t go off both, not yet.’  
He hates long it took him to notice, how well Enjolras had managed to hide because he’s supposed to know him, he’s supposed to notice these changes because that’s what he does...  
‘I’m sorry. Let me help this time.’

~~~ 

“I’ve brought wine.” Courfeyrac shoves the door open, then catches it before it hits the telephone table behind it – Combeferre tells him every time he comes round here and he’s learning gradually. “I made a sale.”  
“Of course you did.” Courfeyrac is a master at sales, he can sell almost anything to anyone, it’s quite an incredible feat to watch, Courfeyrac working his magic. It’s something to do with his smile, that very honest look in his very dark eyes and his not too overly friendly manner.  
“Lovely place, Victorian, though I don’t think I’d have liked to see it in Victorian times, very converted workhouse. Well lit basement bedroom, opened up into a study, which was a bit odd, then open plan living and a little mezzanine to top it off. Lots of white wash and bare brick, you would’ve loved it ‘Ferre. And an original fireplace.”  
“Heaven.” Combeferre nods, handing down three glasses. “How’s… What was her name?”  
“Clara? Didn’t work out.” Courfeyrac hops up onto the counter beside him. Enjolras raises an eyebrow by barely a millimetre. “We wanted different things.” He explains.  
“She wanted something more serious?”  
“Now look here one day I’m going to surprise you and come along with a partner, and then I’ll have the last laugh. Just not with her. Thank you.” He adds as Enjolras passed him a corkscrew. “So how are my non-nine-to-fives’ doing?”  
“Wonderful, got lots of work done without you two here.” Combeferre grins, it’s a little like a Cheshire Cat.  
“Enjolras?”  
“Have you ever been to Ireland Courf?”  
“Northern.” Courfeyrac frowns, pausing as he pours the wine, until Combeferre nudges him when the glass almost overflows. “Why?”  
“I met someone from there today.” Enjolras’s nose goes a little pink, blotchy across his cheeks.  
“Really?” You can almost hear the innuendo, the little jokes in Courfeyrac’s grin.  
“They seemed really nice.” Enjolras finishes.  
“Does Enj have a cr-u-ush?”  
“’Enj’ is going to punch you if you start making jokes about his potential friendships.” Enjolras smiles sweetly, taking a glass from Combeferre.  
“Oh come on, you’re blushing. When was the last time Enjolras blushed Combeferre?”  
Combeferre ponders it a moment, as if he actually has a list of all the times Enjolras has blushed stored somewhere in his mind – though to be fair Enjolras would hardly be surprised.  
“90… No wait… Whenever he met Feuilly and he made that little speech thing.”  
“A couple of years then. My point stands that- Enjolras.” Courfeyrac touches his nose.  
“Oh!” Enjolras starts, hand going to his face, the side of his finger comes away red. Combeferre passes across a tissue in an all too routine manner. “Thanks.”  
“Soo… This Irish guy…” Courfeyrac starts after a moment, now that Enjolras’s hands are indisposed. Enjolras glares at him over the top of his tissue. “You’ve told Combeferre about him! He’s not asking questions.”  
“Because he’s not persistent.” Enjolras’s voice is muffled and warped. Courfeyrac pouts, sticking out his bottom lip, eyes widening into innocence that’s anything but. “I know so much about him but somehow I know nothing about him. I don’t know his number, or his age, or Christ even his name! He was just… Lovely. And an artist.”  
“Ooo an artist. I knew you had a thing!” Courfeyrac looks triumphant, glancing over Enjolras’s shoulder at Combeferre as if he might demand money there and then.  
“Who else?”  
“Feuilly. He runs an art shop… You never found that out did you?” Courfeyrac realises, Enjolras turns his head, raising one eyebrow. “Still, another artist. There’s a trend. Describe him.”  
Enjolras sighs in defeat, adjusting the almost red tissue.  
“He’s kind of, well he’s tall and pretty skinny in an unhealthy way mind, I don’t think- He’s got dark curly hair that had a streak of red in it from paint and his eyes are a really strange shade of blue… And he freckles on his hands.”  
“Sounds a bit like-“  
“Don’t.” Enjolras pulls the tissue away from his nose, scrunching his nose as he did so. Combeferre passes across another tissue, all but shoving it in Enjolras’s face before his nose began dripping again.  
“What are you going to do about it?” Enjolras shrugs. “Well I say go get him, and see if he has any friends. And also that if Joly finds out you had another nosebleed he’ll make you go in for another blood test.”  
“Speaking of whom didn’t he find someone recently?” Combeferre asks, as Enjolras rolls his eyes.  
“I thought he already had someone. Damn we never got to meet him…” Courfeyrac whines.  
“I wonder why.” Enjolras mutters.  
“Who said anything about him leaving the guy?”  
“Oooh…” Courfeyrac’s grin is back. “So he finally found someone who shares his feelings. I think we need a drink to celebrate.”

~~~

When Enjolras walks into his next session, greets the nurse at the reception desk and turns the corner into the waiting room there’s a familiar figure.  
The artist, R, is looking away from him, elbows on his knees, hands clasped against his lips.  
“I thought this wasn’t your usual slot.” Enjolras says as he sits. The man jumps, a breath rushing out of him as he looks round too quickly. There’s a spark of something in his eyes, but Enjolras isn’t quite sure what it is.  
“Had t’ change.” He pauses a minute, gesturing vaguely. “The person I see she, she’s getting new days off in the New Year so I figured I’d get into routine early.”  
“I guess I’ll be seeing more of you then.”  
“I guess so.” The artist smiles, it’s lopsided, his teeth are slightly wonky. Enjolras takes a deep breath.  
“I know this probably sounds ridiculous considering where we are but you seem… Could I have your number?” He says quickly, trying not to trip over his words. He can feel a blush, blotching his skin.  
The Artist looks at him for a moment, as if he’s trying to figure out if this is a joke or not.  
“You. Want my number?” Enjolras nods, his hair falling over his face and he’s almost glad of it now. “Uh… Wow… Okay sure why the hell not. I’m Grantaire by the way.”  
“Enjolras.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not ask me why Courfeyrac is an estate agent, really don't the idea just got stuck...  
> Woo more character introductions


	3. Set Up Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wanders into the little shop about Midday, it’s a quiet time, he remembers from when he worked here.  
> Bahorel glances up from where he’s looking mournfully at a book, taken from one of the shelves that line the front room.  
> “Didn’t know you worked here.” Jehan leans on the counter.  
> “Feuilly needed a hand, I had nowt better to do. Regretting it now though, I mean I don't know the difference between the different shades of red and which artist used what. What the shit is cerise?”  
> “Pink.” Jehan answers with a smirk.

He wanders into the little shop about Midday, it’s a quiet time, he remembers from when he worked here. Jehan’s favourites were always the inks, trying to get his hand to move in the correct way to get the swirls and thick lines calligraphy demanded.  
The shop itself is tiny, with far too many shelves and stands scattered about like a maze. The canvas is kept in the back room, the acrylic in the room opposite the counter, the oils opposite them next to the doorway, watercolours are in the middle of the right hand wall, the inks were always at the front of the basement, the pens and brushes stretched out along to the stairs. There’s a bell above the door that chimes whenever anyone comes in and usually it’s nice, unless it’s raining and it goes off every minute.  
Bahorel glances up from where he’s looking mournfully at a book, taken from one of the shelves that line the front room.  
“Didn’t know you worked here.” Jehan leans on the counter.  
“Feuilly needed a hand, I had nowt better to do. Regretting it now though, I mean I don't know the difference between the different shades of red and which artist used what. What the shit is cerise?”  
“Pink.” Jehan answers with a smirk. Bahorel glares at him with dark brown eyes from beneath his hair, which is gradually making it’s way over his face. It’s been shaved down one side, the rest left long like it used to be.  
“Oh shut up. Feuilly's upstairs if yous want him.”  
“Honestly I just had nothing to do, figured I'd pop by.” Jehan looks back toward the room, glancing over covers with ‘Dali’ and ‘Michelangelo’ on them.  
“Grantaire out?”  
“When I said I had nothing to do…” Jehan jokes and Bahorel laughs behind him. “He’s got a session today, they swapped him on to new times. It’s a bit weird…” He sighs, glancing out the window.  
“Weather getting you down too?”  
“And the rest. It’s just… Very cold. And my home was always very prone to flooding, I still worry even though our flat can’t flood.”  
“Dae I hear a familiar voice?” Feuilly’s Scottish twang comes from up the stairs, and after a short clunking of footsteps on the stairs the man himself pokes his head around the hidden door. He has a smudge of charcoal on his cheek, just beneath one blue eye and his chestnut hair is a mess from where he’d probably been running his hands through it in frustration. Feuilly had inherited the shop, and the flat above, from its previous owner who he’d worked for. Jehan wasn’t entirely sure how it had come about, but Feuilly delighted in the place. He’d employed Grantaire and Jehan, once, when they’d first met until he’d discovered that both of them were taking drugs.  
‘You understand, I’d really like tae help but I can’t when… I can help you find a place tae stay?’  
Feuilly had done more than enough for the pair of them really.  
“I thought it might be you Jehan, gonna buy something this time?”  
“What when I can take up space here jist fine? No chance.” Bahorel glanced, bemusedly, between the pair of them.  
“How’ve you been?”  
“Can’t complain.”  
“And Grantaire?” Feuilly leans against the door frame.  
“He’s stopped shaking. Was painting the other day. Oh and he met someone down at the clinic.”  
“People dae that?” Feuilly frowns. Bahorel shrugs.  
“I never did.”  
“He’s pretty stunning, Grantaire drew him for me. If he wasn’t going after him…” He whistles.  
“Won’t that make things weird between you?”  
“Why?” Jehan frowns, hopping up onto the counter top. “Grantaire’s dated people before, I’ve dated people before…”  
“You always seem so together.” Bahorel says.  
“We’ve never actually been together. You think I’m jealous?” He raises an eyebrow, glancing round to the pair. Both of them make non-committal noises, shrugging their shoulders and the like. “Mind if I stay here for a bit?”  
“Jehan you know I can’t hire you again, not while you’re-“ Feuilly breaks the silence.  
“I know. I don’t expect you to. I can understand. Would you hire Grantaire?”  
“I don’t-“  
“He’s clean. Well he’s on Methadone at the moment because he was getting really ill… But he’s better.”  
“Are you better?”  
“I don’t need to get better, not like he did.”

~~~

“They’re an odd pair.” Bahorel says as Jehan leaves, bell tinkling as he goes.  
“Mhmm.” Feuilly smudges the charcoal on his cheek again as he pushes a hand through his hair. “Always have been.”

To him they’ll always be the pair he found under that bridge. Walking home from somewhere he can’t even remember now he’d noticed them, curled up in each other’s arms, shivering against the cold as they retreated further back away from the snow.  
‘Hello?’  
‘Get the fuck away from me.’ One man had said, curling himself more around the smaller of the pair, who dug his face into his chest.  
‘I’m not here tae hurt you or whatever you’re afraid of.’  
‘Well you’d be the first.’ He muttered, turning his face away again.  
‘I volunteer in a shelter. Let me take you there, you can’t stay here all night. The snow’s gonna get worse.’  
‘Feck. Off.’ The man pushed himself up, the other, half asleep, whined at the loss of warmth. ‘I’m sick, to death,’ He took a step closer. ‘Of you all talkin’ to me. All of you. Now you tell me ‘volunteer-boy’ why would someone not want me in their poxy little B&B? Why would they throw me and my friend out into this? Because I’m almost certain you might do the same. Though you’re not English at least.’  
‘I’d never-‘  
‘High and mighty. ‘You wouldn’t’. Spare me… It hasn’t stopped snowing yet. Didn’t get to see the weather but judging by the state of the supermarket it might not…’ He glances back to the other figure, curled up around a back pack. ‘He’s ill.’ He says at last. ‘He’s ill and I can’t get us into anywhere because they’re either closed or won’t take us in because I’m Irish. Because someone set off a bomb yesterday. Because everyone knows who sets off bombs.’ He swallows, looking more as if he might cry now, anger fading. ‘It’s almost Valentines. I thought I might be able to save up and get us something proper… I can’t even do this.’  
‘Let me take you somewhere safe, somewhere warm and he can get treatment. No-one’s going to chase you off, I’ll make sure of it.’  
‘How far is it?’  
‘Not far.’ The man nods slowly, as if he’s deciding to trust him. The he moves, without a sound back to the other man, crouching down beside him.  
‘’Taire..?’ The other mumbles, glancing up with half-lidded eyes.  
‘Hey… We might have a bed for the night. Scottie over there works in a shelter. How does that sound?’  
‘Is it still snowing?’  
‘Don’t think it’s ever going to stop.’ He kisses him on the forehead. ‘Come on.’ He takes the other’s hand and scoops up the bag in one move, pulling him close to his side. ‘What is your name anyway Scottie?’  
‘Aibne Feuilly, but seriously just Feuilly’s fine.’  
‘Well I’m just Grantaire, and this is Jehan here.’  
They get Jehan settled into one of the camp beds, it’s near the door and a radiator. Grantaire shrugs off his coat.  
‘Sorry fer being snappy with you before.’  
‘You were cold and I can see why…’  
‘We met on the ferry across.’ Grantaire says as he sits down on the bed, gently stroking Jehan’s hair. ‘Been here since summer, it was my idea to come to London. Thought it would be better but… So far it’s just been the usual shite with added snow. Got my bag chucked into the Thames within the first two months, nothing in there worth stealing but doesn’t stop people from checking. I’m sorry.’ He smiles slightly. ‘It’s late, you should get home. T’ank you.’  
‘If you wait here in the morning I’m working tomorrow, I’ll come find you. And make sure you get him checked out.’  
‘I will. Good night.’  
They’re still asleep when Feuilly comes in the next morning, curled around each other like they don’t know how to do it any different now.  
They talk over the course of the day, and the rest of the time Feuilly’s working, between his shifts at the Art Shop. He learns that Grantaire’s an artist, or was, and after a couple of days he shows up with a new back pack, a sketchbook, pencils and water colours.  
‘I can’t-‘  
‘I know charity sucks Grantaire, but it’ll help you get back on your feet. I was in the same situation as you. Slept in that bed over there.’ He points to a middling bed on the right hand wall. ‘Left my foster home with all the ambition in the world. I was 17. Came to London and ended up on the streets within weeks. The lady offered me a prawn sandwich of all things, I don’t even like prawns but I ate it anyway. She brought me along to here and here I met my current boss. He gave me a job, and a room and the rest is history but it didn’t always feel good at the time. I understand that.’ He smiles. ‘Art’s what you love, so go do it.’  
He’s sad to see the pair go, and he never does run into them on the streets, though he hears they’ve ended up back there many a time.  
It’s more than a year later, on a late autumnal afternoon that a familiar figure bursts into his (He hadn’t been expecting to actually end up with a shop but it’s growing on him) shop.  
‘Do you know how many fecking art shops there are in London?’ Feuilly glances up from where he’s serving a, now rather terrified, customer.  
‘Grantaire?’  
‘I don’t know what number you are but jaysus… Oh, sorry. I’ll just…’ He goes to browse the far side of the shop and Feuilly laughs under his breath as he finishes ringing up the customers items and send them off with a smile. ‘Jehan’s getting coffee. Because it’s damn cold out. Indian Summer my arse.’ Feuilly laughs, again, and throws his arms around the man.  
‘How’ve you been?’  
‘A bit better, not being thrown out of so many hotels. And I can splash out on coffee from some street vendor. Still…’  
‘Have you lost weight?’ Feuilly asks, stepping back a little to look at Grantaire properly. He still has that look about him, thin in the cheeks, puffy around the eyes, he has a lazy smile.  
‘Just not wearing all my clothes at once anymore. I wanted to say t’ank you, again, you were right the sketchbook did help.’  
Feuilly doesn’t say ‘I told you so’ or anything similar instead what comes of out his mouth is: ‘Did you ever get tae dae anything for Valentines?’ Grantaire raises an eyebrow, then shakes his head with a smile, glancing back toward the door.  
‘I got us a cooked meal, sit down and everythin’.’ He pauses. ‘We always have to meet like this.’  
‘Like what?’  
‘There was another bomb yesterday, two in fact. Still, here’s my man with the coffee!’ He hurries over before the bell’s even finished ringing and takes the offered Styrofoam cup. ‘Bless you.’  
‘Feuilly! How’ve you been?’ Jehan asks as Grantaire fiddles about with his coffee.  
‘Usual. This is all mine now so can’t volunteer as much but there you go.’  
‘Really? Wow, congratulations!’  
‘Kind of, it’s inherited so… Lovely man owned it.’  
‘Oh right… Well do you want some of our coffee to… Celebrate? It’s the best we can do.’ Grantaire offers up his cup and Feuilly takes a small sip before he splutters.  
‘Jesus, how Irish is that coffee?’  
‘It’s damn cold outside.’ Grantaire shrugs, drinking the coffee like it’s nothing. It’s luke-warm but the burn still sits on his tongue, a sour tingle of cheap vodka or similar.  
He mulls the idea over for quite a while as they talk and Grantaire marvels at the rows of supplies, much as Feuilly had when he first entered the shop, and Jehan goes through book upon book about Renaissance sculpture of all things.  
‘Work for me.’ He says eventually and the pair glance up from a book on Bernini with rightfully confused looks. ‘If you need jobs I mean… I could use the help and you’re both great guys so…’

~~~

“Why is there never any paper in this place?” Jehan asks Grantaire as he walks in the door. “There’s never any paper. Just… Art paper.” Grantaire leans on the back of the sofa-bed, Jehan has scribbling’s up and down his arms and he adds one more on his finger as he talks, in a slightly over messy handwriting that shakes ever so slightly.  
“Are you high?” Grantaire asks. Jehan glances up and gives him a small smile that says sorry better than words could. Jehan always shows his emotions in his eyes, if you learn what to look for.  
“On the come-down. You were back earlier than you said…”  
“Chetta saw me early.” Grantaire pushes himself up and moves over to dig through one of the piles of books against the wall. “He was there again.”  
“Well you chose that slot for that reason.”  
“His name is Enjolras.”  
“You were apt in your naming then.” Grantaire glances up with a raised eyebrow. “Enj, it sounds like the French for angel.”  
Jehan always talks like this, it was always soothing to have a voice to listen to. Jehan used to recite poetry, or describe things in such detail you almost felt they were there in front of him. Grantaire rarely talked, he painted and sketched through his thoughts while Jehan draped himself over his lap or the sofe-bed and passed him cigarettes.  
“I went to Feuilly’s.”  
“Oh yeah? How’s he?” Grantaire finds the notebook he was looking for and leans backwards to pass it to Jehan.  
“Good. He seemed good. Bahorel was working.”  
“I didn’t realise he worked there.” Grantaire says as he settles next to him, stretching out his legs. There’s a spring loose somewhere that he’s going to have to check out.  
“Mhmm. Quite a while now. Feuilly might give you your old job back.”  
“You didn’t have to…” Grantaire starts.  
“I know. But you loved that job and I thought you might want something to do now…” Grantaire takes Jehan’s arm and begins reading the poem, trying to find it’s beginning as Jehan transcribes it.  
“I do. But I... I went into a little bookshop today, they need a little help over the holidays so I went in and had a chat to them.”  
“Oh…” Jehan pauses.  
“You always talked so avidly about the bookshop, so I thought I’d give it a go. T’ank you though, it was really nice of you to t’ink of me.” He plants a small kiss on Jehan’s knuckles.  
“You’ll love bookshop work, it’s really great.” Jehan smiles.  
“Well let’s hope so.”  
“Come on. You, surrounded by classics and the like? You’re never going to come home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of flashback in this one, apologies I just have a lot of headcanons for this one!  
> Feuilly's Scottish and Bahorel's from Liverpool. Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are all from the high ends of London and you know where Grantaire and Jehan are from :)  
> There's lots of tie ins in this story, not sure how it's happened but it's quite fun to gradually get to them all :)


	4. Book Shops and Coffee Stops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bookshop has a bell above the door, it rings once on the way in and once as the door swings shut behind him, gradually fading into the muffled silence of the shop. It’s dim inside, with that musty smell of old books that you can’t help but breathe deep into your lungs. The shelves are up to the ceiling, the room split in the middle by a shorter set of shelves.   
> He awkwardly stands next to the counter, then debates if that’s too obviously uncomfortable and should he lean or pretend to read or-  
> “Oh, you must be our new guy.” Comes a voice, the man it belongs to appears through the door behind the counters, he assumes it might be storage.  
> “Um yes… Nice to meet you.” He holds out a hand.  
> “And you, you spoke to my wife before didn’t you? I’m very sorry but I have to be somewhere. But,” He adds. “We have another new recruit who knows his way around just fine and I’m sure he’ll be happy to show you the ropes."

The bookshop has a bell above the door, it rings once on the way in and once as the door swings shut behind him, gradually fading into the muffled silence of the shop. It’s dim inside, with that musty smell of old books that you can’t help but breathe deep into your lungs. The shelves are up to the ceiling, the room split in the middle by a shorter set of shelves.   
He awkwardly stands next to the counter, then debates if that’s too obviously uncomfortable and should he lean or pretend to read or-  
“Oh, you must be our new guy.” Comes a voice, the man it belongs to appears through the door behind the counters, he assumes it might be storage.  
“Um yes… Nice to meet you.” He holds out a hand.  
“And you, you spoke to my wife before didn’t you? I’m very sorry but I have to be somewhere. But,” He adds. “We have another new recruit who knows his way around just fine and I’m sure he’ll be happy to show you the ropes. Grantaire!”  
“Yeah?” Comes the voice from the other end of the shop, and then Grantaire himself pokes his head around a shelf. “Oh!”  
“So sorry about this both of you but I’m sure you’ll get along. Now, I’ll be back after lunch.” And with that the man is off, tugging on his coat as he goes, leaving the pair of them to stare at each other.  
Grantaire speaks first.  
“I jist can’t get away from you can I Apollo?” Enjolras looks at his feet, then decides that’s too bashful and looks back up again.  
“You know my name now, you don’t have to keep calling me whatever nickname you made me.”  
“It’s hard to get out of the habit.” Grantaire has a stack of books in his arms, which he carefully levers onto the counter top. “Fancy getting rid of your stuff an’ giving me a hand? There’s a little corner in the storage room where you can put it.”   
It takes him a moment to find said corner, laid out with a couple of seats, and when he returns Grantaire’s vanished. He panics, just for a moment, worming into his stomach and chest.  
“Over here!” Grantaire calls, back from behind the shelf like before, and Enjolras breathes before he slowly makes his way down to the end of the shop. There’s an extra side room down this end, with a small alcove of what look like Children’s books, draped in starry material. Grantaire’s wearing a green shirt that’s at least one size too big for him. One sleeve is rolled up, the other hanging over his hand as he slots books into an empty shelf.  
“Everything’s roughly alphabetical. This section here is classics, then poetry until the wall which is teens and young adults then children’s, obviously. Behind you is history. Out in the main room is all the fiction, from A-Z from your left as you walk in through the door. Under the window is reserved for the brand new bits and then finally miscellaneous more specialised bits in the central column, mainly sci-fi and fantasy.” He picks up another book and slots it into place, without looking up. “The till’s pretty simple but it bites so watch out for that.”  
“It… It what?” Grantaire looks up this time, with an amused smirk on his face.  
“When you press the CA/AMT button, the drawer opens. Be careful of that or it’ll wind you.” He goes back to the books. “Prices are on the back of the books, type it in, press a few buttons, take their money, give change. I’ll show you in a minute.” He adds as Enjolras frowns at him.  
He feels he might panic again. Combeferre had suggested he get the job, something to do, a few shifts here and there but nothing too heavy. Combeferre worked in their University library, back a few years.   
“I can take care of customers fer you, if you want. The till’s not so bad when you’re used to them but I can see why it might scare you.”  
“I’m not-“  
“It’s alright Apollo, it happens to all of us. I have a friend who does that, he’s better at hiding it though, so you lean to look fer really in-detail things.” He rubs his shoulder, straightening back up. “I usually braid his hair. But I’m sure you’re not looking fer that. I’ll show you the stock room.” His hand brushes Enjolras’s shoulder as he passes in a ‘follow me’ move and Enjolras blushes.   
This could be a long day.

~~~

It has been an infinitely slow day.   
Jehan leans on his hands and sighs, staring at the door. The café’s small, and it’s only got one customer in it at the moment, who’s been there for almost two hours reading one of the books from the shelves. It’s something he does regularly, but there’s just a slightly too frequent stream of customers that keep coming in in dribs and drabs to do that.   
There are so many sirens in London. It’s the first thing he said to Grantaire on their first morning here, Jehan having spent half the night lying under Grantaire’s arm and just… Listening, unable to sleep but not quite able to stay awake.   
Another flash of blue rushes past now, and he sighs as the sound warps and distorts as it passes before fading into the distance.   
The door swings open and shut as he watches and someone leans on the counter in front of him.   
“Interrupting?” The man asks. He has a wide toothy grin, and eyes that are nearly black, they match his hair, his skin is slightly sallow which makes his teeth appear whiter.   
“No, I welcome the distraction. What’ll it be?” He asks as he pushes himself off of the counter, slightly further away from the man.  
“Do you know how tempting it is to say your number?”  
“That’s a bit forward.” Jehan smiles all the same, the flirting is automatic. The guy’s attractive. “And presumptuous. What can I do fer you on the hot drinks front?”  
“Just a cappuccino.” He doesn’t look overly disappointed, and he doesn’t persist which is useful. “To go I’m afraid, I have a client who’ll be waiting and it’s not the best impression.”  
“Oh?” Jehan goes about making the drink as the man answers. He’s not really interested, but there’s no-one else around and the guy seems to be at least willing to talk, which is a start.   
“I work in real estate.” Jehan taps the frothed milk against the counter top, tap and swirl, tap and swirl. It’s a simple routine.   
“Oh. That sounds…” He doesn’t finish, but the man laughs. It’s a pleasant laugh, warm and rich and genuine.   
“It’s more interesting that you probably think it is. And there are some killer houses.”  
“I imagine.” Jehan smiles. “£2. Please.” The man really does have a nice smile, it’s still flirtatious, and his hand lingers as he takes the coffee cup.   
“I’ll maybe see you around.”  
“Perhaps.” Jehan leans on his hand again, watching as the man leaves, sipping his drink. He gets a few steps, almost out of sight when he notices the little message and he tosses his head back in a laugh that makes Jehan smirk.  
‘Maybe next time we’ll talk about that number.’

~~~

Enjolras has used the cash register 3 times today, only once did he get hit in the stomach which Grantaire admits he probably shouldn’t have laughed at but the indignant look on Enjolras’s face just set him off. Even the customer snorted.   
Grantaire kicks his feet up now, flicking through one of the stockroom books.   
“Are you reading Homer?” Enjolras asks, squinting at the title.   
“I’ve already read Homer, I’m just looking for my favourite bit.” Enjolras cocks his head to the side from his seat next to the till. “’Nothing is bred that is weaker than man’.”  
“A bit cynical.”  
“If you don’t think I’m cynical then you know nothing about me my dear man. The world inherently leans toward systems of power and oppression, it’s hard to be optimistic about that.”  
“I used to work in a group that challenged those systems.” Enjolras leans forward in his chair, his eyes bright. “They can be changed, it just takes time! But things are changing already!”  
“Your enthusiasm is as endearing as it is mis-guided. Things do change, yes, I never said they didn’t. But the same systems crop up. Jist look through history.”  
“We can still fight them!”  
“Then do it Apollo, jist don’t come crying to me when it fails.” Enjolras jerks back, mouth dropping open for a moment. Grantaire stretches out his hands, balancing the book in his lap. “Listen do you get off at 2? Because I have a friend who works in a coffee shop.”  
“I-I can’t.” Enjolras stammers, still blinking from his previous comment. “My flat-mate’s expecting me, we’re having a late lunch…” A ‘he worries when I’m late’ isn’t said, but it doesn’t need to be.  
“Oh.” Grantaire shrugs. “Well, maybe some other time. I’ll blag your free coffee as well, more fer me.” Enjolras pauses, breathes in, out and then opens his mouth.  
“My friend is… Well he’s having a party. He said we can invite people. You could come to that? Bring your roommate too, and other people if you want, seeing as you won’t know anyone but any way it’d be nice or-“  
“You’re rambling.” Grantaire grins.   
“I’m not good at this.”  
“I’d love to, I’ll bring a couple of people along.”

~~~

“Good timing.” Jehan glances up, just slightly, from where he’s buttoning up his coat, waiting under the awning of the coffee shop. “Coffee’s there.” He nods to the window sill, where two polystyrene cups sit carefully balanced.  
“You’re an angel.” Grantaire grins, kissing Jehan’s cheek before he rescues his cup.   
“How was work?” Jehan finishes fastening his coat, nearly shaking by the time he’s finished. He cups his coffee between his hands to try and warm them at least.  
“You’ll never guess who’s also working there?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow with a roll of his eyes.  
“Not Apollo?” Jehan laughs in his not-quite shock. “You just can’t get rid of each other can you?”  
“Turns out he’s an optimist.”  
“Oh, poor baby.” Jehan coos, placing a hand on his arm in a gesture of mock-comfort. Grantaire pouts, sticking out his bottom lip and furrowing his brow.  
“I know. But I did get us invited to a party this weekend.”  
“Oh?” Jehan grins.  
“Some of his friends. Thought I might see if Feuilly and Bahorel wanted to come along too, seeing as we’ll know no-one.”   
“Those are the best kind of parties.” Jehan sips his coffee with a smile. “I haven’t been to a party in years…”


	5. Questionable Vodka and Coke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How the hell did you end up knowing someone who owns a place like this?” Feuilly asks as they climb the stairs toward the apartment Grantaire’s been given the address for.  
> “Work. And I know his friend.”  
> “Oh good, so none of us know the host. Dae ye think Whiskey and Bahorel’s cocktail skills ‘ll be enough to satisfy them?” Grantaire laughs.   
> “I was told to invite friends, so I have. With your social skills and Bahorel’s charms you’ll both be grand.”   
> The apartment’s on the third floor and Feuilly leans against the wall as Grantaire knocks.  
> “How dae you cope with all those stairs on a regular basis?”  
> “You lazy arse!” Bahorel laughs just as the door is pulled open by a rather flustered looking Enjolras.   
> There’s a small amount of blinking and silence before Bahorel simply burst out laughing again.

“How the hell did you end up knowing someone who owns a place like this?” Feuilly asks as they climb the stairs toward the apartment Grantaire’s been given the address for.  
“Work. And I know his friend.”  
“Oh good, so none of us know the host. Dae ye think Whiskey and Bahorel’s cocktail skills ‘ll be enough to satisfy them?” Grantaire laughs.   
“I was told to invite friends, so I have. With your social skills and Bahorel’s charms you’ll both be grand.”   
The apartment’s on the third floor and Feuilly leans against the wall as Grantaire knocks.  
“How dae you cope with all those stairs on a regular basis?”  
“You lazy arse!” Bahorel laughs just as the door is pulled open by a rather flustered looking Enjolras.   
There’s a small amount of blinking and silence before Bahorel simply burst out laughing again.  
“Grantaire! Thank God you made it.” Enjolras springs back into life, like a toy being rewound “And you brought friends. Come in, come in, most people are here already.” He ushers them through the door into a large apartment. There are a few people here and there, a trio on the sofa facing away from them, a tall man pouring himself a drink, and another over by the stereo.   
“Wait a minute.” Feuilly says behind him and Grantaire and Jehan glance around. “Enjolras?”  
“No way, Feuilly!” The pair are still in the door, Feuilly still out of sight in the door frame and Enjolras now paused, grinning.   
“I haven’t seen you since…”  
“1992. October.”  
“So it was… Wow, well it’s great tae see you again! I’m sorry I never made it to that protest-“  
“No! No.” Enjolras interjects with a smile. “You had lots of other stuff going on. Anyway come in a meet everyone else.”   
Grantaire shrugs at Jehan heading over to where the drinks appear to be.   
“Well what do we have here?” He unloads the bottle he’s brought and glances over the selection in front of him.  
“Dark haired and Irish? You must be Grantaire.” The man next to him grins. He’s tall, with dark hair in tight curls and kind chocolate brown eyes behind thick rimmed glasses.  
“And who might you be?”   
“I’m Combeferre, Enjolras’s flat mate.” Combeferre holds out a hand.   
“You’re taller than I imagined.” Grantaire takes his hand and shakes it briefly, the contrast between their skin tones is stark. Combeferre’s laugh is rich and deep.  
“I think you’re about the same as I pictured. Enjolras isn’t doing very well with the introductions.”  
“He’s being distracted by Feuilly.” Jehan interjects, picking up a bottle and examining it.  
“Feuilly? Feuilly-from-the-shelter Feuilly?”  
“Yes..?” Jehan raises an eyebrow at Grantaire who shrugs.  
“Enjolras used to work at the shelter, never shut up about him.” Combeferre smiles, glancing over his shoulder to where Enjolras is still talking avidly to Feuilly as Bahorel awkwardly looks on, trying every now and then to steal the bag Feuilly’s holding. “I didn’t catch your name…”  
“Jehan.” Jehan smiles, topping up his drink with lemonade.   
“Well you’ll both get on with everyone here I’m sure. Courfeyrac, who’s actually the host but there you go, is the guy over there fiddling with the stereo. The trio on the couch are Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta.” He points to each in turn, finger jumping through the air. “Bossuet and Musichetta I don’t really know, they’re with Joly. Then there’ll be Marius, Courfeyrac’s old roommate and his fiancée Cosette but they were having dinner first.”  
“When Enjolras invited me he didn’t say I’d be bringing half the guests.” Grantaire laughs, then murmurs his thanks to Jehan as he hands him a drink.   
“There were meant to be some people from Courfeyrac’s work and things but something came up. This is a pretty core group though, you’ll like them-“ Combeferre jumps as a blast of ‘I Would Do Anything for Love’ explodes into the room. Courfeyrac rapidly scrabbles to turn it back down until it reaches a more manageable, no complaining neighbours’ sort of level.  
“Sorry!”

~~~

“Well if it isn’t the barista.” The man sidles up to the counter where Jehan’s been leaning.  
“Oh, the real-estate guy. What a coincidence.”  
“I’d rather you called me Courfeyrac, seeing as that’s my name. May I call you Seán? Just that was your name-tag so…”   
“No one calls me Seán, call me Jehan instead.”  
“Okay, Jehan, how’s about we talk about that number?”  
“That was meant fer the coffee shop. And you’re still very forward. I think I’d like to talk to you more than t’ree lines before that happens.”  
“I can manage that.” Courfeyrac looks back toward the group around them. “No one take your fancy?”  
“Oh I already know who I’m going home with.” Jehan smiles, and Courfeyrac’s face brightens just a little.  
“Really?”  
“Mhmm.”  
“Who?” Courfeyrac asks, because he can’t help himself.  
“Grantaire.” Courfeyrac’s mouth opens, then shuts before he looks about the room.  
“The guy who’s flirting with my best friend?”  
“Unless someone convinces me otherwise.” Jehan looks across to him, raising one eyebrow by the smallest amount.   
“I can’t actually ‘take you home’ seeing as we’re in my flat.”  
“Such a shame, the forwardness… Do you want another drink?” He gestures with his glass. “Though I can’t offer you whatever we brought. It’s very cheap, very questionable and possibly vodka…”  
“You can have some of mine, if you give me a dance.”  
“I t’ink you have a deal.” Jehan grins, holding out his glass. 

~~~

“It’s amazing where people show up isn’t it?” The voice has a soft, slightly Welsh lilt, and is all too familiar.   
“I t’ought there couldn’t be many Musichetta’s in town.” Grantaire offers her a bottle.  
“Thanks. You know..?”  
“Enjolras. From clinic in fact.” He glances around to his therapist, she looks a little different in this kind of situation. Her hair’s loose around her shoulders, jet black and wavy, pinned only at the side with a couple of clips. Her eyes are just as searching, framed with dark lashes and that one slightly raised eyebrow. There’s a sweep of blusher across her coffee coloured skin, and a deep red colour on her lips that betrays that she’s not in her working environment – though he’s sure she’d wear it every day if she could. “And you’re with… Joly was it?”  
“My boyfriend… ‘S. The pair on the sofa.” She gestured toward a sandy haired man with wire rimmed glasses, almost the exact opposite of the dark skinned bald man he was talking to, legs draped across his lap. “How do you want to handle this?”  
“I thought we were doing pretty good.”  
“Continue acting as if this is our first meeting then?”  
“Saves on the back story.” Grantaire grins. “It’s nice to meet you, why don’t you introduce me to your friends?”  
“I thought you’d be trying to spend the whole night with Enjolras considering how you were looking at him.” Musichetta smiles coyly.   
“No psych stuff here okay?” Grantaire sips his drink, watching the small groups around the room, Jehan and Courfeyrac are sitting on the floor by the radiator, chatting away. Marius, who arrived just after them, appears to be arguing with Enjolras while Cosette and Combeferre watch on like spectators commentating sport. “Besides, interrupt that? No way, he’s having far too much fun.”  
“Come on, I’ll introduce you to my boys then you can weasel your way in.” She all but pulls him over to the pair on the sofa. They both glance up as she plonks herself back down. “Boys this is Grantaire, Enjolras’s friend. But he’s doing a terrible job of introducing us, so I’ve taken it upon myself.” Joly has kind grey eyes and he smiles widely as Grantaire settles himself on the coffee table. Bossuet has dimples and a wide, very white, smile – though one of the teeth to the side is missing.   
“Grantaire!” Bossuet holds out a hand, shaking Grantaire’s hand avidly. He has a loud, open, bright personality Grantaire learns. He’s half-trained as a lawyer, but grew bored of it. He ended up working as a Clerk anyway. Joly is in his final year of medical school, he’d met Musichetta at the hospital. He laughs often, speaks of places he’s been, people he’s met, things he’s heard, but also of his work, of the latest thing scientists think might prolong your life and the like.   
“So the question is will the benefits of alcohol, when looking at heart disease, out-weigh the risks that could come with it and- Oh.” Joly glances over Grantaire’s shoulder to the group on the other seat. “Enjolras is bleeding again.”   
Grantaire looks round to where Enjolras is laughing as he presses a tissue to his nose, waving off Marius’s frowning.   
“Don’t you go worrying about him Joly.” Musichetta scolds him lightly. “We’re here to have fun.”  
“Your friend seems to be getting on well with Courfeyrac.” Bossuet’s voice brings Grantaire back to the group in front of him. Grantaire glances across at the pair, at Jehan’s lazy smile and the hand he carelessly drags down Courfeyrac’s arm and the laugh that makes him throw his head back.   
“Well at least one of us should get laid tonight.”

~~~

“You know you’re not actually that bad a dancer.” Jehan grins up at Courfeyrac, who had eventually persuaded some – now rather drunk – people to get up and dance. Jehan then proceeded to, with little difficulty, drag him over to the little patch of floor himself.  
“Don’t say that with so much surprise.” Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow.   
“Oh sorry, you didn’t seem like the type.”  
“I’ll have you know I studied theatre at University, and that dance was part of that.”   
“How’d you get from theatre to real estate?” Jehan asks in amusement.  
“I was working backstage, got chatting to a guy, he worked at an estate agents and voila. Well, that’s the condensed version. What did you do? In Uni?”  
“I didn’t. Would’ve been English but, well… You need to loosen up your hips.” He slides his hands down to rest just over the waistband of Courfeyrac’s jeans, fingers splayed just a little. Courfeyrac’s lips turn up just a little in a grin as the movement brings them closer together, his own arms snaking around Jehan’s waist.   
“Now who’s forward?”  
“I asked you to dance and- Oh…” He raises an eyebrow as Courfeyrac slips a hand into his back pocket.   
“Is this okay?”  
“Oh it’s very okay…” Behind Courfeyrac he can see Grantaire and Enjolras and Combeferre standing around the table chatting, Musichetta’s collapsed on the sofa, leaning over the back to join in their conversation, leaving her two boys to dance by themselves – something that looks no mean feat. Marius and Cosette are almost slow dancing, looking completely out of place considering the music.   
“You know most people are crashing out, if you’d like to join them…”  
“Join them? Or join you?”   
“Well…” Courfeyrac dips his head slightly to place a soft, almost chaste kiss on his lips. “If that’s okay?” Jehan gives him a lazy smile, draping his arms around his shoulders, before bringing their lips together in response.   
They tiptoe over everyone as people start to settle down. Combeferre’s claimed the sofa – though his legs spill off the end – Feuilly and Bahorel are almost sitting up where they’ve all but passed out in the corner. Jehan’s not entirely sure if something’s happening between Grantaire and Enjolras yet, judging by their odd proximity and arrangement on the floor, as if both want to get close but are scared of what might happen. They’re almost back to back, somewhere between Marius and Cosette and Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet who have managed to fit into a smaller space than expected.   
Courfeyrac shuts the door quietly behind them, leaning forward.  
“Where were we?” Jehan hooks his thumbs through his belt loops, tugging him forward.  
“About here.” He murmurs, placing a kiss against Courfeyrac’s jaw and he can feel Courfeyrac melt beneath his lips. He takes the chance to push him toward where he hopes the bed is – an assumption that proves right when Courfeyrac lets out a small squeak and practically falls backwards onto his mattress. Jehan places a hand on his hip, looking down at him with a barely supressed laugh.  
“Oh shut up… And- Oh!” Jehan straddles his waist, bracing his arms either side of him before he leans in for another kiss. Courfeyrac’s fingers make short work of Jehan’s buttons, and his hands go to his shoulders to push the shirt off before Jehan reaches up to stop them.  
“Shirt stays on, okay?”  
“Uh yeah…” Courfeyrac begins to frown as Jehan unbuttons the first couple of buttons of his shirt, but the expression is quickly gone when he lightly nips at his collarbone as he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More characters!   
> Musichetta, as you may have guessed, is from Wales. She's of Indian decent.  
> Joly is from Devon, pretty close to the Dorset border.   
> Bossuet is from Oxfordshire, but he has a slightly more Midland-y accent.


	6. What We Do Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire’s sipping his coffee when Enjolras comes in on Wednesday for his shift. He sketching, leaning one arm on the counter, clasped around a polystyrene cup, while the other sketches a moor-land scape.  
> He’s had the couple of days preceding to himself, Enjolras only works Wednesdays and Fridays, and he’d almost forgotten that he was due in, but after an initial shock he allows a lazy smile to spread across his face.  
> “Apollo. You came back.” Enjolras shrugs off his coat with a cursory raise of his eyebrow.   
> “I work here, it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise.”   
> “Oh I don’t know… Thought the cash register might’ve scared you off.”

Grantaire’s sipping his coffee when Enjolras comes in on Wednesday for his shift. He sketching, leaning one arm on the counter, clasped around a polystyrene cup, while the other sketches a moor-land scape.  
He’s had the couple of days preceding to himself, Enjolras only works Wednesdays and Fridays, and he’d almost forgotten that he was due in, but after an initial shock he allows a lazy smile to spread across his face.  
“Apollo. You came back.” Enjolras shrugs off his coat with a cursory raise of his eyebrow.   
“I work here, it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise.”   
“Oh I don’t know… Thought the cash register might’ve scared you off.”  
“I’m back with a new determination for it not to make that squealing noise at me again.”  
“Alright then, you’re on duty.” Grantaire grins, shifting his seat across so Enjolras can sit behind the machine. He adds a little shading to the ruined building standing against the sky and Enjolras glances over.  
“What’re you drawing?”  
“It’s an old tin mine, there’s tonnes of them everywhere but this one’s in Allihies.” Enjolras pauses a moment.  
“Was that your home town?”  
“That was Ahiohill. Which is about 110km away.” He grins. “This was just a beautiful place I liked to sketch sometimes, they had these really bright painted houses down in the valley and sometimes the sun’d shine on them jus’ right. Once I was there and it looked like it was going to bucket it down, the sky was all black over the village but behind me the sun was out and it was shining right on them and it was beautiful.” He smiles fondly, looking down at his sketch. “Besides, people liked buying sketches of the place, and it made a good watercolour…”  
“You used to sell these?” Enjolras asks in surprise.  
“Yeah? In the summer season anyway, gave me a few extra bob and people seemed to like it. And it was fun.”  
“You speak so fondly of it.”  
“Yeah well, it’s my home. I just had something I needed to do.”  
“I could never leave here… London’s just…”  
“A shit-hole.” Grantaire snorts. Enjolras makes a noise of protest. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. London’s lovely, you’ve just only been to the right parts of it.”  
A customer approaches the counter almost cautiously. Enjolras flashes her a winning smile and neatly rings up her items, with a small diversion when he manages to catch the wrong button at the wrong time and almost gets hit by the drawer, again. Grantaire leans on one hand, sipping his coffee, and watching as he laughs softly and shakes his head, starting again.   
There’s a steady stream of people, buying Christmas presents, browsing, getting lost and looking for directions. Enjolras deals with the mostly, Grantaire wanders around the shop, stopping to make suggestions.   
He’s settled back in his seat now, sketching Jehan’s face and the way his hair falls and the fullness of his lips when he smiles it that so sarcastic way.  
“Portraits too? That’s really… Beautiful.”  
“Jehan’s beautiful, the subject matter helps.”  
“I, well yeah…” Enjolras looks almost disappointed, studying the wood of the counter.  
“You’d make a beautiful portrait.” Grantaire smiles a little, adding a wave that frames his cheekbones. “Jehan and I aren’t an item.”  
“Oh.”  
“He slept with your best friend at the party, you really think that was together behaviour?”  
“We didn’t get to talk much the other night.” Enjolras changes the subject quickly, a blush spreading across his cheekbones.   
“Well you only have yourself to blame. You were too busy arguing, or… Bleeding.”  
“Yeah uh… Right.”  
“What’s with the nosebleeds anyway?”  
“It’s a… Blood disorder. It’s nothing serious, doesn’t really impact anything but it’s just annoying sometimes.” Enjolras rubs his nose with his thumb. “Why’d you ask?”  
“Just wondering, everyone seemed pretty used to them so…”  
“You didn’t… You didn’t think they caused by something else did you? Please don’t tell me you though I did cocaine or… I never did anything illegal!” The line runs a little too dark, deep into the page, his fingers tightening around the pencil.  
“Oh please. Don’t act like that makes you a really great person, or like it’d be so horrific if you had.”  
“I’m sorry… You-?” Enjolras does at least have the decency to look just a little ashamed with himself. He sets the notebook down.  
“Heroin. Three years. I’m still friends with a user. And I know someone who did coke, started in Uni and had to drop out. Ended up in a pretty bad way. They are good people. So do not act like you’re better.”  
“I didn’t realise-“  
“It doesn’t matter.” Grantaire mutters. “Part of me is thinking that you should take an early lunch so I don’t hit you because I really don’t want to look at you right now. The other part of me thinks that you have a complex, and a deep rooted problem of prejudice which is found in pretty much everyone against people who get addicted to illegal drugs. Now, you and I both know how easy it is to get addicted, so I expect you, of all people, to get the hell over it or one of us is changing shifts. Which is a shame because I kind of like you.” He sighs, stretching his arms above his head. “Now Apollo, which’ll it be?”

~~~

“Oh god I’ve finally found you.” Courfeyrac catches him as he walks out of the café, pulling his hair down out of its bun.   
“I’m not that hard to find.”  
“I’ve come in every afternoon this week.”  
“Evidentially I don’t work every afternoon. Go on then.” Jehan says as they begin walking. “Why were you so desperate to see me?”  
“We should really talk about what happened.”  
“Why?” Jehan glances around. “We slept with each other, it was a one-time thing, what’s there to talk about?”  
“Well our friends… And what about Grantaire I mean… Won’t things be awkward?”  
“Always with the awkward… He’s my flatmate, that’s why I was going home with him.” Jehan smiles, eyebrow raised. “Anything else is none of your business.”  
Courfeyrac falls back a couple of paces.   
“Why wouldn’t you give me your number?”  
“We’d only just met.” Jehan replies over his shoulder.  
“You slept with me.” He states, catching back up to him with a few long strides.   
“Courfeyrac, you don’t seem like the kind of guy who doesn’t understand the idea of a one-night stand. So don’t act like you are.”  
“Would you give me it now?”   
“No.” Jehan replies simply and Courfeyrac’s face falls. “Because I don’t have a phone.”  
“At all? So when you said we’ll talk about that number you meant… How do you communicate?”  
“Letters delivered on horse-back.” Jehan raises an eyebrow. “There’s a pay phone down the road, you just have to collect 20p’s. If you want I can give you the number to that.” There’s a pause as Courfeyrac ponders over the situation, or something along those lines.  
“Could I give you my number?” Jehan stops at a crossing and leans against the traffic lights.  
“Now why would I want that?” He smirks. Courfeyrac rests his hand above Jehan’s head, leaning down to kiss him roughly. “I think I might remember now…” Jehan murmurs as they part.  
“We were supposed to be talking about this-” Jehan plants another kiss on his lips, breaking off his words.   
“Screw the talking.”  
“Your place or mine?” Courfeyrac asks in a breath.  
“Yours, I have a roommate.”

~~~

“So…” Jehan begins. “Enjolras.” His head hurts, almost spinning, so he’s curled himself up across their bed, his head in Grantaire’s lap. The other absently strokes his hair as he ponders his sketch – He’s managed to nab some pastels and has set about adding colour to a row of houses.   
“What about him?”   
“You seem to be getting on well. Any nearer to seducing him?” He grins and Grantaire taps him on the nose.   
“I’m not seducing him.”  
“Oh please, you have a posed sketch in your sketchbook. And he keeps going red.”  
“Like you don’t blush a lot.”  
“Ciaran.”   
“I didn’t tell you my name so you could first-name me whenever you wanted something.”   
“Come on.”  
“I don’t know.” Grantaire tells him eventually. Jehan frowns, reaching up to take his hand carefully.  
“Have I hit a sore spot?”  
“No, you haven’t it’s just… Well we fight a lot.”  
“That’s not a bad thing, you just have different personalities. Adds a bit of fire.”  
“He’s an optimist, dangerously so. Last week we argued because he went and acted high and mighty about illegal drugs and I wanted to hit him, Friday I can’t remember what happened but that was terrible… I like him, but sometimes I just can’t stop myself from hating him. And I t’ink he feels the same, no matter how much he blushes.”   
“What basis do you have fer that?”  
“I’ve been called no less than 6 different insults.”  
“Then feck him. Come on, you still have me.” Jehan smiles.  
“I just don’t t’ink he knows he’s doing it. He gets so fecking passionate about things. It’s unhealthy.”  
“Everyone has passions.” Jehan tells him, reaching up to touch his cheek. It’s rough with stubble, and Grantaire nuzzles into his hand. He doesn’t argue back, or come out with some sarcastic comment like he usually does, and Jehan frowns. “Do you think that you’re both scared by the prospect of falling for each other and so are trying to distance yourselves from any possibility of it happening?”  
“I don’t know what it is. God he’s so… He just has all these ideas that I think are ridiculous and yet when he says them I can almost believe that they’ll happen. I haven’t believe anything like that for a very long time. I just don’t know why he does it to me… There’s just something… But Christ Jehan, you don’t fall in love with someone after a couple of months!”  
“I fell in love with you when you lit my cigarette.” Jehan tells him and Grantaire sighs.  
“I fell for you when I saw you laughing in the rain. And then I fell harder when you said you wouldn’t be fun to draw.” Jehan exhales softly, turning his face into the material of Grantaire’s jeans. “Are you okay?”  
“My head hurts…”   
“You’re not getting a cold again are you?” Grantaire’s fingers gently skim over his forehead. Jehan’s renowned for getting terrible colds that settle in his chest and sinuses for days on end, keeping them both up with his coughing and cold sweats. “We can go see Joly if you’d like, he seems like a nice enough guy.”  
“I’m fine Grantaire, it’s just a headache.”

~~~

Grantaire stumbles into work late, and stumbles is quite an apt term for how he’d managed to get here, slowly dragging his feet that feel like they might be weighted down with lead as they try and lift themselves from treacle pavements. He actually trips over the tiny step coming into the shop because lifting his foot that high feels like too much effort to be manageable and he blinks back at it in shock when he comes to an abrupt stop.  
Even that movement, of his neck and his head and his eyelids feels like too much, eyes catching up with the rest of him.  
“Jist a headache my arse…”  
Jehan’s been in bed most of the week, before Grantaire joined him and they both lay there in mutual misery. He only came in today because he just needed to get out of that, get out of the house and breathe some not-really-what-you’d-call-fresh air. He’s regretting it now, the wind bites at his ears and every steps sets of fireworks in the dull ache of his head, each swallow makes his ear feel like it’s going to pop.  
“Oh, you made it.” Enjolras glances up from behind the counter as he stares at the step behind him.   
“Only jist…” He sighs, slinging his bag off his shoulder as he heads for the back room. Enjolras is occupying his usual position when he returns, reading one of the books. He flops down in his chair, winces, then peers at the title. “Looks like heavy reading.”  
“It’s on racism.”  
“Racism?” Grantaire can’t help raising an eyebrow, and it tugs at the ache in his eyes.  
“When I did activism combatting racism was an aim of mine.”  
“What do you know about racism?”  
“I’ve actually done quite a lot of research into the various kinds of racism and their effects, and I’m friends with Combeferre and Courfeyrac-“  
“So basically you know… Very little. About discrimination at all.”  
“I wouldn’t say that-“  
“I would.”  
“You’re being completely unfair. I may not have been through any of it but I can still understand-“  
“You know nothing.” Grantaire snaps suddenly, because he can’t take this anymore, can’t listen to this optimistic, knows it all shit. Can’t stand the fact that his heart’s betrayed him again, that me might have actually fallen for this guy when all along he never wanted it to happen, always wanted it to be different but life isn’t like that, it doesn’t work out how you plan. And he intends to tell him that, but when he opens his mouth all that comes to his lips are his own misfortunes, and they spill out before he can stop them. “You know nothing about growing up in a Catholic family. Of having to leave your home, of having to leave your country because it no longer wanted you, could no longer support you. You know nothing of finding out that the streets of London are not paved with gold but run with shit. Because the signs may have come down long ago but people would still rather turn you out onto the streets, in the snow than let you in with your filthy Irish accent.”  
“And the drugs..?” Enjolras asks quietly, and Grantaire is suddenly struck by what he just said. He glances down.  
“The streets of London are paved with hatred and spite. They are built on long standing prejudice, the foundations run deep and they will hold me to account for the actions of my countrymen, actions I was not even old enough to understand. Because that is what London is built on. That is its roots, its core is finding someone to blame. But it will never look at itself and t’ink, maybe, it needs to change. And that’s why you know nothing pretty boy.”  
“You know nothing about me either.” Enjolras protests.  
“I know enough. I thought I could do this today but I was wrong. Could you tell the boss I went home sick?”  
“Grantaire-“  
“Nothing ta do wit’ you Apollo, I jist really might collapse if I stay here any longer. And I’d rather not inconvenience you.” He pushes his seat back, standing up far too quickly and having to focus on the ever shifting back of his hand as the stars threaten to blacken his vision. Enjolras moves as if to steady him. “Right. I might see you Friday.” He grabs his stuff, and only half puts his coat on as he leaves, leaning against the wall outside. “Stupid. Stupid…”


	7. White Wash and White Noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire sees Enjolras again the next Wednesday, spending Friday convincing himself he was too ill to go into work even though the pain in his head had receded to one point near the base of his skull and he could actually swallow now and he really didn’t feel that bad.  
> Enjolras pauses as he walks in through the door, propping it open with one hand.  
> “Hey.” Grantaire begins. “I ain’t gonna bite your head off, I promise.” He sighs, looking slightly to the side. “Look I’m sorry, I felt really shit last Wednesday and… Well it just all came to the surface. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, and I really shouldn’t have unloaded all that on you at once.”  
> “At once? So you were going to tell me then?” Enjolras asks and Grantaire snorts.  
> “If you were lucky Apollo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for drug use/withdrawal and hospital settings

Grantaire sees Enjolras again the next Wednesday, spending Friday convincing himself he was too ill to go into work even though the pain in his head had receded to one point near the base of his skull and he could actually swallow now and he really didn’t feel that bad.  
Enjolras pauses as he walks in through the door, propping it open with one hand.  
“Hey.” Grantaire begins. “I ain’t gonna bite your head off, I promise.” He sighs, looking slightly to the side. “Look I’m sorry, I felt really shit last Wednesday and… Well it just all came to the surface. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, and I really shouldn’t have unloaded all that on you at once.”  
“At once? So you were going to tell me then?” Enjolras asks and Grantaire snorts.  
“If you were lucky Apollo.”  
“So… Do you want to talk about it?”  
“Maybe not all of it. Talkin’s not what I do.”  
“You were right though, I like to think I understand but I’m sure I don’t at all. Sometime I need that pointing out to me.” Enjolras settles next to him, sideways so he can watch Grantaire’s face.  
“That I can do.” Grantaire smiles, stretching his arms.  
“I’m glad you’re feeling better though.”  
“So am I. Jehan’s not because I killed him fer giving it to me. He has a talent for getting ill, usually I can avoid it. Won’t go to a doctor though, doesn’t like them.”  
“He could see Joly, he’s not fully qualified but he can do a check-up?”  
“Thanks fer the offer.” There’s a moment of silence as Enjolras writes down a number, folds it twice down the centre and hands it over. Grantaire murmurs another thanks as he pockets it.  
“So your family?”  
“We’re doing this now?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow.  
“I’ll tell you about mine.”  
“Is that coveted information or something?”  
“Ask anyone, they’ll tell you that’s it’s not a regular occurrence.”  
“Rich parents? Disproved of everything? Rebellious teen? They were so happy you took politics but disagreed with what you stood for?” Grantaire tries. Enjolras dwells on it a moment before he shrugs.  
“Add a little more ‘typical overly rich parent’ and add in the fact I’m an only child and it’s terribly disappointing that I won’t be continuing on the family name and you’re about there.”  
“Not sure if it’s worth my story.”  
“Well I know you were a Catholic family. I assume they disproved of your homo-“ Grantaire raises an eyebrow and Enjolras corrects himself quickly. “Bisexuality. So you left them and decided to come make a better life for yourself?”  
“Not quite. They disproved of me before that, my father wanted me to follow him into some kind of prestigious scientific field. Couldn’t get my head around it, numbers just kind of swim around on the page fer me. Then, of all things, I decided art was something I wanted to do. Which had been fine when I was a kid but… Well you know how parents are with unconventional career choices.” Grantaire laughs softly. “Then I came out with the bi thing and well that was not so good. Got shoved into many a confessional for that, lots of renouncing and… Just general shit. I decided to pack up at 16 and managed for 4 years doing bits around. Wasn’t easy, unemployment was at terrible levels but… Well now I’m here.”  
“The way you talk of it makes it seem like not a great alternative…”  
“Here is… Very closed in. It’s noisy, the people are ghosts, and you’re even less. But I needed that, I needed to be a ghost, living on the fringes. I jist didn’t need everything else that went with it.” He leans on his hands. “But I’ve made my bed now, so I’ll lie in it.”

~~~

Jehan only came along to this because of Grantaire. Because, despite everything, Grantaire’s masks and little jokes, he knows how much Grantaire worries when he gets sick.  
Besides, Joly seemed alright last time they met, so it can’t hurt.  
So he’s sitting on a dining room chair in Joly’s kitchen, watching as the man digs through a small kit for the next piece of equipment.  
Joly has a reassuring presence, he knows when to talk, when you leave you to your own thoughts, he goes through what he’s doing, and he doesn’t make those little noises and pauses Doctors usually do that get you worked up. He’ll make a good Doctor once he’s qualified fully.  
“I want to listen to your heart and breathing, could you take your shirt off?”  
Jehan pauses, breathes in, then out again.  
“Can’t it stay on?”  
“It’ll be a lot easier without it.” Jehan rubs at his arms.  
“Okay, but you’re a medical professional so you’re not allowed to judge me.”  
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Joly loops the stethoscope over his ears as Jehan shrugs off his shirt, hastily folding his arms over his stomach. Joly watches them carefully.  
“I’m not an addict.” Jehan tells him. Joly bends down and places the stethoscope against his chest. “I just use, sometimes.”  
“Your usage is not my concern. Just breathe for me.” Jehan breathes deeply, and Joly moves round to place the stethoscope on his back. “And again.”  
Jehan hastily pulls his shirt back on, buttoning it twice as he gets the buttons in the wrong holes, once Joly pulls away. “Is it possible you could have used a dirty needle?”  
“I’m not that stupid. I’m always careful.”  
“It’s just something to rule out.”  
“Ask Grantaire, I caught colds at the drop of the hat even before I started using.” Joly puts the stethoscope away.  
“Maybe your lungs then… I think I have a breathing test here…” He moves towards that cabinets with his slow, stuttering gait.  
“Let me get it.” Joly glances around. “Your knee, uh, it seems to be bothering you.”  
“You noticed?”  
“At the party actually…”  
“Thank you for the offer but I’m alright.” Joly begins to dig through a cupboard. “I supposed I can tell you, you we kind enough to tell me your secret.” He knocks against the side of his right knee.  
“It’s prosthetic…”  
“Mhmm.” Joly retrieves a box from the cupboard and comes back to sit next to Jehan. “Had a bout of meningitis when I was about 2, I recovered but they couldn’t save my leg.”  
“Wow I uh…”  
“It’s never really bothered me, I mean I don’t remember life with a flesh and blood leg. It just means I have to use a cane long distance. My main problem is telling people who I, well, like L’Aigle or Musichetta. I was petrified of telling L’Aigle about it, because every time I’ve found someone I like like him they’ve freaked out and left.”  
“He seems like a nicer guy than they all were.”  
Joly smiles fondly.  
“He is, he’s great. And Chetta too. They’re both wonderful with everything.” He holds out the contraption he’s been assembling. “Breathe.” They go through the routine a few times, and Joly goes over the results. “It could be an undiagnosed asthmatic condition. I’d still like to do a blood test to check for immunodeficiency, but you’d have to go to a Doctor for that. I know quite a few nurses though, I can find one I think you’d like?”  
“I’ll see, and give you a call.” Jehan smiles reassuringly, though he’s not convinced it will ever happen.  
“Do you want to stay and have a cup of tea or something?” Joly asks as he begins packing up the various bits and pieces he’s been using.  
“That would be lovely.”  
They settle on the sofa with mugs of steaming hot tea, fruit tea for Joly, and chat about home and work and friends.  
“What’s it like…” Jehan asks cautiously, as they shift to relationships. “Loving two people?” He asks out of curiosity yes, but there’s some concern there on his part, regarding his own situations.  
Joly sips his tea thoughtfully.  
“It’s great. This isn’t the first time obviously, but usually I’ve been with two separate people. But when I mentioned it to L’Aigle and introduced him and Chetta they just clicked. Which has never happened before but… Well it’s just nice being able to wake up to my two favourite people.”

~~~

He does go to the Doctors office in the end, because Joly says he’ll go along with him and that the nurse is lovely and non-judgemental. To be fair, she is.  
She’s got a kind smile, and warm hands with short fingers. She barely blinks when he shrugs off his shirt, but simply goes about trying to find a vein.  
“Try here.” He traces the blue line, relatively clear amongst the marks. She gives him a nod, and actually takes his advice, rather than jabbing at him, which he’s thankful for.  
“You can sit a while if you’d like.” Joly tells him as they leave, Jehan curls his fingers to stop them shaking.  
“I’m fine, t’ank you for the offer. Do you want to grab a coffee?”  
“My shift actually starts shortly…” Joly rubs at the back of his neck. “And I’m guessing you don’t want to go to the cafeteria.”  
“I’d rather not hang around here…” Jehan admits. Joly nods with an understanding smile.  
“You should get a call when the results come in. And I’ll see you soon?”  
“I t’ink you will.” Jehan gives him a smile in return. “T’anks again.”  
“It’s no problem.” Joly waves him off.  
Once he’s out of the hospital Jehan’s walking is almost unconscious, his feet just pounding against the road to just get him away from the too clinical smell and the people and the noise. It lingers in his nose and his ears and in the crook of his elbow.  
It’s nerves, just nerves. Not how many days without a shot because of Courfeyrac coming over and Grantaire and then this goddamn blood test. He’s still on edge.  
He passes the College, then the British Museum and soon he’s passing over Oxford Street with its crowds. He keeps pushing, keeps walking.  
His feet know where to take him and Waterloo Bridge rattles beneath him with a passing train.  
He knows these streets. They were the first streets he stepped onto, in the pouring grey rain. He’s slept on these streets, lived on them, walked for hours on them because he had no other way, because he had nothing else to do.  
The steps smell like urine and stale cigarettes. The railing’s rusty, pulling away from the wall where you dare touch it. The flats are pretty ramshackle, more of an old factory than an actual home. The brick work is greying and flaking off, the window panes peeling and rotten. They were only built in the 60s, but you would think they had a good hundred years to look at them.  
Jehan leans against the low balcony wall once he’s knocked on the door. The not-quite-corridor in front of this level is scattered with toys, a bike, a pram slowly fading away.  
Éponine opens the door a crack, showing only one fierce, nearly black, eye and a mess of dark brown hair falling over her cheeks. At the sight of him her cracked lips spread into a lazy grin and she opens the door just a little more, leaning against the frame with folded arms. The house behind her is dark, there’s the line of doors, the corridor’s sharp turn cutting the light off.  
“Jehan… What a surprise.”  
“Why? You know to expect me.” He leans forward a little with a grin. Éponine jerks her thumb over her shoulder.  
“Usually when you and your friend come you come together.”  
“My friend..?” Jehan feels his blood run cold, heart faltering and dropping like ice into the pit of his stomach.  
“Yeah Grantaire came by a little while ago…”  
“Shit.” Jehan clasps his hand over his mouth. “Shit. Éponine let me in now.”  
“What’s goin-”  
“Now! Please.” She raises an eyebrow, but stands aside.  
“Alright already, no need to get like that… He’s in the bedroom.” Jehan sets off along the corridor in a sprint, catching his toes on the loose floorboards and getting splinters in his hands as he catches himself. There’s only one door closed, and he slows, gently pushing it open. It’s only for a moment, then he’s on his knees next to Grantaire – slumped against the wall under the window.  
The tourniquet is loose around his arm, hand draped across his lap. His mouth hangs open in a loose ‘o’. His eyes are half open, flickering, and one is almost sealed shut by the freshly blossoming bruise across his cheekbone. There’s a drop of blood from a split lip, starkly red against their pale bluish colour, a cut across his nose and his knuckles and palms are scraped. Jehan slaps at the un-injured side of his face, repeating his name in its various forms. There’s a slight response, a vague shallow exhale that’s supposed to form his name, an opening of one pin-prick eye, then Grantaire’s head lolls forward again.  
“Jesus- Shit. Éponine! Call an ambulance or- Fuck…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire suffers from dyscalculia


	8. Echoed Halls and Plastic Chairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is your fault.” Enjolras says suddenly. Jehan stares at him open mouthed for a moment.  
> “Excuse me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for hospitalisation, overdose and mentioned drug use/withdrawl

Jehan glances up at the approaching footsteps, clacking with a purpose against laminated flooring. His eyes feel tired, not responding correctly as he meets Enjolras’s eyes, heavy lidded and reluctant to maintain the contact.   
“Courfeyrac said Grantaire was here..?” Enjolras asks cautiously. Jehan fixes his eyes back on the mottled pattern of the tiles.   
“He overdosed. The Doctor says he’ll be okay now, but they’re still in there and they won’t let me see him.”   
“Stabilisation, to be sure.” Enjolras tells him, Jehan nods but doesn’t say anything more, simply gesturing to the seat next to him.   
“This is your fault.” Enjolras says suddenly. Jehan stares at him open mouthed for a moment.  
“Excuse me?”   
“You’re still using aren’t you? Tell me there aren’t track-marks on your arms right now. And tell me that, if those marks weren’t there, Grantaire would still be here in that bed!”  
“You- You are unbelievable! Grantaire and I have an arrangement. I never- Not in the flat. He went out, I found him at our bloody friends!” Jehan shakes his head. “Jesus. You stand there all high and mighty on this plinth like you’re better than me, than us. You’re not. You keep telling yourself that because it was pills, prescription so they’re completely legal, that you’re so much better. They’re opiates, you were addicted to the exact same thing as I use. Just because their ‘legal’ doesn’t make you better than me. You were still an addict, you used drugs. We are exactly the same.” He punctuates his words with his hands. “I called Courfeyrac because I thought you might like to know.”  
“Well if you hate me so much then kick me out.”   
“Tch.” Jehan turns away from him. “Don’t do that. Doesn’t look good on you.”  
“Do what?”  
“You know I’m not going to because fer some reason, God knows what, Grantaire actually likes you. You’re trying to wind me up. It ain’t workin’.” He sits back in the seat. “I’m here fer my friend. You can stay if you can put up with me.”

 

“Jehan… I- Where am I?” Grantaire asks woozily as he blinks awake. Jehan stares at him blankly from the plastic seat he’s sat in, arms folded, slumped low against the back.  
“The hospital.”   
“H-Hospital? Why…”  
“Because you fucking overdosed! That’s why.” Jehan snaps, pushing himself up. “You bloody had to go and do it! Why Grantaire? Why?! After all the months of trying, of being clean, of fucking withdrawals, why did you have to go and t’row it away? Huh?”  
“I needed some…” Jehan pushes himself up, shoving his fingers through his hair.  
“Jaysus if you were going to do it you could’ve at least taken me with you!”  
“Why?”  
“You’ve been off fer t’ree months Ciaran! Do you know how quickly your tolerance drops?!” He presses his hands to his lips, dragging down. “I t’ought I was going to lose you.”  
“I’m stronger than that-“  
“No. You’re not.” Jehan sits back into his chair, face deadpan again. “I can’t find the words to tell you how angry I am right now. Because I am furious Grantaire. But I’m jist so… Happy you’re actually still here.” The dead-pan breaks for a moment, until his face is buried in his hands. “I don’t- I don’t know what to do with you. Because you’re such an idiot. But you’re an idiot who’s still here… You’re… My idiot. And I t’ought you were going to die…” He’s actually crying now, he promised he wouldn’t but there are tears running hot and salty over his lips and dripping off his chin. Grantaire reaches out to place his hand on Jehan’s knee and Jehan actually flinches back and he hates himself for it.   
“Please come here…” Grantaire murmurs, and he holds out his hand this time and it has a wire snaking from it, from the needle Jehan can see beneath his skin and for a moment he wants to throw up.   
Then he half falls out of the chair, knees against the floor. He doesn’t sit on the bed, or lie with Grantaire so they can curl up together and forget where they are. He kneels like he’s praying, burying his face in his arms against a stiff scratchy sheet. Grantaire reaches out slowly, running his fingers along Jehan’s messy plait.   
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry I didn’t mean- I didn’t want to hurt myself.”   
“You were doing so well.” Jehan mumbles.   
“I was bound to fall off the wagon sometime.” Grantaire says quietly, and Jehan glances up.  
“Not loike this.” He’s shaking, deep in his chest and into his voice and coming out in tremors in his hands. And it’s adrenaline, the come down of fear, it’s this damn hospital. That’s all. That’s what he tells himself. It’s not because he was so close, it’s not because he’s over 4 days without a hit between blood tests and Courfeyrac coming over and Grantaire.   
It’s not…  
“Who beat you up?” He asks eventually, lifting his head from the scratchy blanket.   
“It was nothin’.”  
“Who.” Grantaire looks to the side.  
“Just a bunch of guys looking for a ‘paddy’ beat up.” Jehan exhales in a small ‘oh’, sitting back onto his knees.   
“Is that why?”   
“I’ve had an itch for weeks, it’s never gone away.”  
“If you have an itch you’re not meant to scratch it. It only makes it worse!” Jehan pushes himself up.   
“Like you don’t scratch your itches.” Grantaire snaps. Jehan stares.  
“I don’t have itches. I’m not an addict, you know I’m not. I’m not loike you were.”   
“Don’t be mad.” Grantaire sighs softly, watching him with those unchanging eyes, deep and sad.   
“Your boyfriend said the same.” Jehan mutters, folding his arms. The comment’s getting to him, creeping through him like a chill.   
“Who..?”  
“Enjolras.”  
“He’s here?”  
“I t’ought he might loike to know, and you might loike to see him. That’s all.”  
“Did you tell him he was being an arsehole?” Jehan nods slightly, still not looking up. “Jehan?”  
“I’m sorry, I’m just stressed…”  
“That is my fault.” Grantaire holds out a hand. Jehan pauses a moment before crouching back down, resting his cheek against Grantaire’s hand with a sigh. Grantaire’s hand moves back into his hair, carding through his waves.   
“You’re an idiot, but it’s not your fault.” 

 

“Jehan said I could have a quick visit?” Is Enjolras’s opening as he pushes the door open.   
“Quick, before the nurse gets back.”  
“How’re you feeling?” Enjolras asks, sitting on the chair next to him. Grantaire raises an eyebrow.  
“Like shit. But hey, I’m alive.” Enjolras makes a small noise something like a snort. Grantaire stares down at his hands. “I don’t know if I can do this again.”  
“Hey… You can do it, you’ve done it before.”  
“That’s why Enjolras, I can’t go through that again, I know I can’t.”  
“Why did you do it? The first time?”  
“Why did you?”  
“I realised it was beginning to ruin my life.”   
“Why did you.” Grantaire repeats. Enjolras sighs quietly, slightly defeated, and he leans forward.   
“Combeferre.” He says eventually. “He observes everything, as you may have noticed, but he didn’t realise that I’d… Become addicted. And every time I saw him he had this terrible guilty look on his face. I couldn’t stand it. I had to get rid of that look somehow…” Grantaire nods, seemingly satisfied with the response.   
“I saw someone overdose.” He murmurs. “It was this kid, no more than my age when I came over here. And he… We were all just there and he went completely blue. He was fine and then he couldn’t breathe and… None of us could do anything. And I just t’ought what if that were me? I couldn’t do that to Jehan.” He presses his lips together. “I never actually told him. And now… I almost went and did it.”  
“What if he did it to you?”  
“Jehan’s more careful than I could ever be.” Enjolras doesn’t look convinced. “I didn’t appreciate you blaming this on him.”  
“You’re a recovering addict living with a current one.”  
“It’s an arrangement and it works. I wouldn’t say something like that to Combeferre so I don’t expect you to go around accusing my best friend of something that’s already upset him enough. I also don’t appreciate you calling him an addict.”  
“You can’t think he isn’t.”  
“Of course not, I know full well his relationship to heroin and I know he has a problem. He doesn’t.”  
“And you aren’t going to tell him?” Enjolras raises an eyebrow, as if this is some kind of heinous crime he’s discovered and is now going to set about ruthlessly solving. Grantaire hates it.  
“Don’t make it sound loike that.” He says flatly. “If I told him, as you may have found out, it wouldn’t help the situation, it would only force him back into denial. He’s very functional, far more than I ever was, and so he doesn’t think he’s an addict. Or maybe he does, but doesn’t want to admit it, I don’t know. My point is he’s not going to accept the fact he has a problem, not yet, and he has to be willing to do that before he can even think about anything else.” He looks across pointedly at Enjolras, who’s studying him in a disbelieving manner. “And I’m not going to stop supporting him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long! And leaving it on such a bad place too - this one's for Ice_Tiger.  
> I've been taking part in the Les Mis Big Bang over here: http://lesmis-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/ Go check it out


	9. What to do Next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I feel profoundly… Guilty.” Grantaire says after a short moment. Bahorel watches him with amber flecked eyes that always seem to look through you. They’re telling him to continue, so he takes a deep breath and does so. “I feel like I’ve let everyone down, not because I ended up here, or because I almost killed myself. That just… Maybe I’m angry at myself but that doesn’t mean much anymore. I’m always angry with myself. But I just feel so guilty that I went back there, that I was… Weak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied drug use, over dose mention, past addiction mention

Jehan doesn’t sleep well that night, to put in a more accurate way he doesn’t sleep at all. Instead he lies awake in their empty bed and somehow it’s cold, even though Grantaire’s always the one with cold feet. He listens to the noises of traffic fading into boy racers with squealing tyres, then into the steady rumble of delivery vans.   
A siren rushes past and he actually flinches, burying his face in the pillow. There’s an ache in his chest that won’t go away, he hasn’t slept alone since he arrived in England, always curling up next to Grantaire for warmth, from necessity, and then simply because they didn’t know how to do any different. Even when it was impractical, when the only bed they could find was a single, or a park bench they managed to fall asleep leaning with each other, curled up tightly in each other’s arms.  
It feels like the first of many. And he’s not sure why.   
He’s not sure if anyone will answer the door, glancing about the dark streets almost furtively.  
“Christ Jehan…” The figure raises a hand to wipe at blurry eyes. “It’s 3 in the bloody morning.”  
“I’m- I’m sorry. Please, can I come in?”   
Eponine studies him, coolly, for a moment, considering her options. He’s hurriedly dressed in a jumper, jeans and Grantaire’s coat, shoes messily laced and hair still slept on. She sighs.  
“Alright.”

~~~

“I feel profoundly… Guilty.” Grantaire says after a short moment. Bahorel watches him with amber flecked eyes that always seem to look through you. They’re telling him to continue, so he takes a deep breath and does so. “I feel like I’ve let everyone down, not because I ended up here, or because I almost killed myself. That just… Maybe I’m angry at myself but that doesn’t mean much anymore. I’m always angry with myself. But I just feel so guilty that I went back there, that I was… Weak.”  
“Falling off the wagon’s not weak, it’s natural. I know very few people who succeeded at never touching the stuff again.”  
Grantaire doesn’t reply, looking down at his hands, at the IV drip sticking under his skin, the stiff sheets and scratchy blankets.   
“You know what I did after my first session?” Bahorel asks, when there’s no reply he continues. “I went out and I scored some blow. It was like my little reward for actually going. It took me weeks to get out of it, but eventually I managed to get out of the habit. It wasn’t the best start.”  
“How did you manage it?”  
“I talked. Which wasn’t exactly usual. I talked and I started doing things, anything really. I boxed, I found work at Feuilly’s, I just found anything else to do, to occupy me. But you know Grantaire that’s just me. Every person’s different. And you’ve already done better than I did; it’s just getting back on track. Whether that’s today or a few weeks down the line.” Bahorel pats his leg, with his easy smile. Grantaire sighs, not replying either way.   
There’s a short knock on the door, before Jehan pokes his head around.   
“Oh, hey Bahorel!” He smiles. “Up for another visitor?”  
“Apparently I’m up for leaving so I’d imagine so.”   
“Oh?” Jehan’s face is concerned but his eyes light up at the news. “So soon?”  
“As long as I go to Chetta.”  
“That’s good then.” Jehan nods, stepping into the room. A scruffy haired boy follows with a grin, hands tucked into the back pockets of his too long jeans.  
“What are you doing here Gavroche?” Grantaire asks as Jehan sits with him on the bed, his hands automatically carding through his hair.  
“I ran into him and he begged me to let him come.”  
“I did not beg.” Gavroche protests. “I wanted to check up on a friend.” Grantaire mulls a minute on how much of a coincidence the pair meeting is, and how much more relaxed Jehan is against his side and decides not to comment further.   
“Well I’m fine you little shit. Tell your sister.” Gavroche nods, clearing some of his frizzy hair away from his eyes. Then, with a gappy grin, he settles next to Bahorel. Grantaire’s almost surprised Bahorel hasn’t adopted the kid yet, aside from the implications of actually being responsible for a teenager. He immediately slings an arm around him, causing Gavroche to fall forward with a small oof.   
Grantaire’s sure Gavroche does have a place where he’s legally tied to, guardians that aren’t his actual parents but look after him better, but he’s not found it yet. He and Jehan first met Gavroche when they were on the streets, a sprightly kid who had the cheek to ask if they needed help.  
‘And what’s a scrawny kid loike you gonna do?’  
‘I dunno, help a couple of foreigners who obviously can’t find a hotel out?’  
‘We’ve lived here two years, we’re hardly foreigners.’  
‘And I’m London born and bred, beat that.’  
Jehan’s curled into his side on the tiny bed, head on Grantaire’s chest, like he doesn’t actually care that the others are here.   
“Don’t you ever have school?” Grantaire asks Gavroche, the other looking up from where Bahorel’s ruffling his hair through yelps of protest. “Or any kind of work?”  
“I learn everything I need to know from the streets.”  
“It’s a teacher training day.” Jehan mumbles, much to the chagrin of the teenager who lets out a huff.   
“They teach me more than my maths teacher does, absolutely useless he is. Feuilly taught me more.”  
“Feuilly doesn’t count as the streets kiddo.” Bahorel grins. “He’s property owning now.” Gavroche grumbles again.   
“Well the streets still teach me things… There’s all the free museums and interesting people-“ Bahorel nudges him.  
“You fancy going down to the ring again?”  
“You mean it?” Gavroche’s face lights up, Bahorel’s reflecting it, before he looks down to hide the excitement. “I mean uh, yeah I’d love to.” Grantaire smiles fondly, the kid doesn’t seem to get much out of life. Éponine’s never given him any specifics, he’s never asked, but a string of foster homes and broken families seems to be the gist. But he always takes everything in his stride, usually with a cheeky grin and a laugh. Grantaire admires him for that, for never letting anything put him down.   
“Hey.” He murmurs to Jehan. “You alright?”  
“Didn’t sleep well…” Jehan says against his chest. “I didn’t like it without you.” Grantaire kisses the top of his head.   
“I’ll be home tonight, and then you can have as much snuggling as you need.”

~~~

“Hey Feuilly!” Gavroche pokes his head up from behind the counter with a wide grin.  
“Jesus- Christ!” Feuilly, from where he’s been leaning day dreaming, stumbles back swearing. “How the hell did you get in here? Without setting the bell off?” Gavroche stands up properly now with a grin.  
“T’wasn’t too hard.”  
“You scare me sometimes.” He scrubs a hand over his face, sitting in the seat behind him. This time the bell does ring, and Bahorel strides in. “I might’ve known.”  
“He went ahead, I stopped to buy doughnuts.” Bahorel holds out a bag of freshly cooked ring doughnuts that Feuilly proceeds to make grabby hands at. “Nuh uh.”  
“He snuck in and scared me!” He protests. “I deserve compensation.” Bahorel considers it a moment. “I’m your boss.”   
“Fine, fine.” He holds them out and Feuilly juggles one between his hands as he tries to get it down to a reasonable temperature. Gavroche is already eating his like it’s not lava hot. “Grantaire’s being discharged.”   
“He’s recovering then?”  
“Physically. Not sure about the rest of it.” Feuilly nods, chewing thoughtfully.   
“Maybe I’ll pop round after my shift tomorrow.” He glances at Gavroche, now sitting on the counter top eating his third doughnut. “Fancy popping down to the shelter again? Everyone really liked your company last time.”  
“Sure thing.” His response in nonchalant, but his eyes betray his feelings, sparking just a little.  
“Only if you finish your work though. And if you stop cluttering up my shop.” His tone becomes teasing. Gavroche sticks his tongue out at him.  
“Bahorel’s taking me boxing again.”  
“On the homework guarantee.” Bahorel warns, Gavroche glances up.  
“We made no such bargain when you offered so it doesn’t apply.” Bahorel curses under his breath. “You have to get in there quick.” Feuilly chuckles, taking another mini doughnut from the bag, his hands coated in sugar. He likes the little friendship the two have going, somewhere between brotherly and an uncle-nephew relationship. Feuilly knows Bahorel has some ulterior motives, Gavroche’s family past is no secret anymore, and Bahorel is determined to give him something more and stop him making those mistakes, but it’s loving too. And Gavroche adores him, ever since Jehan and Grantaire brought him in one day he latched on to Bahorel’s presence and hasn’t let go yet.   
Feuilly himself has grown fond of him, the cheeky, confident presence and cocky grin that says he’s just asking for trouble. Now he knows where they are he comes by whenever possible, at nonsensical hours that have no schedule. Usually Feuilly can persuade him to do some work in the back room, with the promises of stories, boxing sessions or extra facts, but more often than not he’ll settle on a stool and people watch a while before vanishing off again.   
He’s like a stray cat, if he was Feuilly’s pretty sure he’d have tied a note to him by now, but Gavroche is more than a little bit too observant for that.  
“Tell me one of your stories.” Gavroche says.  
“What kind of story?”  
“One of your stories.”

~~~

Jehan’s head is in his lap as he draws, fingers itching for a distraction. The image is simple, a view of the Houses of Parliament that most people ignore by now, in wiggling lines that have no end. Jehan’s half asleep, legs pulled to his chest, and so time passes with only the noise of the streets for company.   
“You should start drawing again.” Jehan mumbles, glancing up at his work.   
“What do you t’ink I’m doing?”  
“No I mean loike you did in Ireland. For tourists and t’ings.”  
“You t’ink people’d buy them?” Grantaire frowns at his work, adding an extra reflection.  
“People bought them over there. And we’re in London, half the people here are tourists and they love this stuff.” Jehan fishes a box of cigarettes from down the side of the sofa. “You’d do great.”  
“Really?”  
“Yes, really. You’re good at this stuff.” He probably shouldn’t push him, Grantaire’s terrible when pushed. He retreats into his shell like a snail, away from the outside world and whatever comment you just made. Compliments he can sometimes take, if you read him right and say it just so. Heavy handed praise is a no-no, just little things here and there, sprinkled and metered out. But tonight, after the last couple of days, with their stress and long nights, he pushes, just a little bit. “Draw for me then. I’ll sell them and make millions.”  
“You wouldn’t.”  
“Try me.”  
“You’re too sentimental.” Every picture explicitly ‘for Jehan’ ends up tucked away somewhere, in note books or the back of the tattered frame that follows them now. And he cherishes each one, when and why it was drawn, what made him fall in love with it, every detail possible noted down.   
“Then side track me and make them for yourself. You deserve it.”  
“I deserve it?” Grantaire smiles in amusement.  
“I know, shocker, after all these years you actually deserve some financial security.”  
“I’ve forgotten what that feels like…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this took me much longer than it should have between the Big Bang, Essays and Christmas! Hopefully here's to back on track in the new year?


	10. Tell Me You Don't...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire watches Musichetta like she watches him, intrigue, intense study, each trying to read something off the other. They’ve not spoken much since he arrived, she prefers him to start, but he can see her crumbling a little. Normally he would have said something, but he doesn’t know where to begin.  
> Eventually she sighs, places down her pen and speaks.  
> “So, how’s life going?”  
> “Complicated.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning for talk of drug use/addiction

Grantaire watches Musichetta like she watches him, intrigue, intense study, each trying to read something off the other. They’ve not spoken much since he arrived, she prefers him to start, but he can see her crumbling a little. Normally he would have said something, but he doesn’t know where to begin.  
Eventually she sighs, places down her pen and speaks.  
“So, how’s life going?”  
“Complicated.”  
“How so?” She knows, of course she knows, but he blurts out anything anyway.   
“I’m a recovering addict who just fell of the waggon. The guy I like is also a recovering addict, and snobbish about it. And I live with an addict who doesn’t think he has a problem. Who’s so head over heels for a guy he won’t even realise it.” He sighs. “And who won’t actually do anything about his feelings because he’s too ashamed of the fact he uses.”  
“I thought you said he didn’t think he had a problem.”  
“No addict thinks they have a problem unless the fact becomes unmistakable. You’ve seen Jehan, he’s functional, if you didn’t know he used heroin you’d have never known he did.”  
“And then the problem comes…”  
“Well it’s hardly an acceptable thing. He knows that. He knows he shouldn’t be doing it, subconsciously. I mean the last person he slept with with his shirt off was me. And that’s because I was the last person he slept with who knew. And it’s just… He’s going to get hurt.”  
“Grantaire, as a recovering addict Jehan is-“  
“Not my responsibility I know. But he is. I know you won’t understand that, but we’ve been through too much together to not be responsible for the other person. He was the first person I met when I came over here, and then with all the troubles going on and being on the streets… Hell we’ve not spent a night apart I don’t think. He’s just… I’m responsible for him like he was, my partner, or my brother or something. I know that’s a weird relationship to have, I know it makes no sense but it’s how it is. And it sounds so co-dependent but I love him too much to give a shit, I really do. Which is… Completely ridiculous considering we met as a one night stand and were never meant to spend more than a night together, then it was just sharing a hotel but now we’re in too deep.”   
Musichetta stares at him in a slightly exasperated manner, like he’s a friend she’s had to hear the same tale from one too many time. Somehow it comforts him, making this feel less like a therapy session, and more like he’s confessing to a friend.   
“I can’t leave him.” He says finally.   
“You may be my most stubborn patient.” Grantaire gives a small snort.  
“I promise I’ll do everything else you tell me to.”

~~~

Jehan enters the shop before closing, with a pair of take away coffees in a cardboard holder clutched in the gloves Feuilly gave him for Christmas last year, already wearing at the finger tips. He shoulders the door open, rather than letting go of the tray that seems to be grounding him.  
He looks surprised to see the owner by the shelves, restocking at the end of the day.   
“Hello.” Feuilly says, almost exactly at the same time as Jehan begins. “Is Bahorel here?”  
“He doesn’t live here.” Feuilly smiles. There’s a pause, the bell ringing softly in the background.  
“Could’ve fooled me.”   
“I’m here, I can talk.” Feuilly offers, making the decision to close up slightly early before Jehan even agrees.   
“I don’t want to intrude.”  
“Nonsense, I could do with a coffee anyway.” Feuilly shrugs, pushing the last few books into the shelf. “You remember how to cash up.” Jehan nods with a small smile, finally placing the carrier down and flipping the sign in the door over.   
Feuilly takes the stool, Jehan perches on the end of the counter, cradling a cup in one hand and stacking coins with the other while Feuilly begins on the notes.   
“Do you think I caused Grantaire’s overdose?” Jehan asks suddenly, turning a pound coin between his fingers. Feuilly pauses, trying to formulate a response as he counts.   
“I think if he was going to relapse your presence wouldn’t have altered the likelihood. Grantaire knew what living with you would mean. I know that doesn’t mean it’s not hard, but… Well he has his own triggers. And they are far more complex than whether or not he’s living with a user.” Jehan nods, making a point of straightening his stack of coins. He looks sad, but in a distant way that leaves his face almost neutral while his eyes hold deep secrets. “Where did this come from?”   
Jehan sighs.  
“Enjolras said something about it… It’s just been playing on my mind so I thought I’d come and ask Bahorel about his addiction and recovery. Grantaire said Enjolras was being an arsehole saying so but that didn’t exactly mean he was denying it.” His speech comes in fits and starts. “I’m just… I don’t know. I don’t want to leave.” Jehan mumbles, placing down a stack of 4 pound coins rather than five, Feuilly makes a note for later. “It’s just messy. And it’s getting messier and yet I just can’t… I feel so selfish, like if I was a better friend, if I really loved him I would let him recover, leave him and take all my problems and influence away. I feel like it’s all my fault…” He breathes shakily. “All of it, he could have got on better if we’d just had the one night, he wouldn’t have taken the drugs if I wasn’t there… I just… I’ve screwed it all up and I don’t even have the guts to make it better.” He’s turning a coin over in his hand now, not paying attention to anything else. Feuilly takes a moment, then moves around the counter to hold him tightly.   
“None of it is your fault. Grantaire would never blame you, you know that. Because he cares for you so much. If you’d not been there I don’t think anything would change… I think he’d just have no one to help him through it.”  
“He has Enjolras now, he has you and Bahorel.”  
“And you’re still his best friend.” Jehan sniffs. “Leaving now won’t help either of you. Instead you both need to help each other through this.”  
“What if I can’t?” Jehan murmurs, not expecting any answer and Feuilly doesn’t give him one. Instead he cards his fingers through Jehan’s hair gently, holding him until he pulls away.

~~~

Jehan wanders aimlessly through the streets, not really heading anywhere in particular. The only place he’s not heading is the flat, but he’s not sure why. He ends up back under a bridge he’s spent many a night, not stopping to dwell on the past. The past is what’s brought him here. The B&B’s, the streets, park benches, shop doors, flat after flat.   
He ends up back at the flat anyway, staring at the outside door for a good couple of minutes before he heads inside and up the stairs. Grantaire glances up as he walks in, smiling happily, despite still looking drawn.   
“Hey. I was wondering where you got to, dinner’s almost ready.”  
“Oh, great.” He perches on the edge of the bed. “How was the meeting?”  
“It was alright actually. Helped me iron a few things out.”  
“Mhmm good. And you’re feeling a bit… Better?” He asked. Grantaire raises one shoulder.   
“I guess. I’m definitely not as bad, I mean I’m cooking… But you know…” Jehan makes a non-committal noise, resting his arms on the back of the sofa. There’s a pause as Grantaire turns back to the little hob to stir a pot of pasta.  
“So… Have you seen Courfeyrac this week?”  
“I see Courfeyrac most weeks. What’s it to you?”   
“Just wondering how it’s going.” Grantaire shrugs.  
“You do realise it’s not actually a relationship? We’ve agreed that. It’s just two people having fun.”  
“Don’t you want it to be anything more?”  
“No, I’m really happy how it is. B-Because if things get more serious then… Well things can end and I don’t want that to happen.” He doesn’t say ‘not again’ because this was never supposed to be anything, it’s still not anything. Not really. Grantaire turns around with a frown.  
“Jehan? What’s wrong?” He murmurs, reaching out to wipe away a tear as it rolls down his cheek. Jehan blinks in surprise.  
“I-I don’t know… I don’t-“  
“Jehan?” Grantaire repeats. Suddenly everything comes to the surface, the stress of the last few weeks, the shake deep down in his core, all his worries.   
“Everything’s just changing. And I feel so selfish for not want that to happen. But it’s all so quick and I don’t- I feel like I’m losing you.” Grantaire pauses, just for a moment but it’s long enough for Jehan to blurt out the next thought that comes into his head. “Say you never loved me.”  
“What?” Grantaire pulls back slightly in surprise.   
“Tell me I never meant anything to you.” Grantaire swallows, looks down for a moment that feels infinitely longer than it is before taking Jehan’s face in his hands.  
“Jehan I-“ He exhales. “I love you.” He intersperses his words with rough kisses over Jehan’s forehead and cheeks, damp and salty. “I have never loved anyone more than I love you.” There’s a final kiss on Jehan’s lips. “Please don’t talk like that. You’re not going to lose me, because I couldn’t lose you. I’m staying here.”  
“What about Enjolras?”  
“We’re still dating. You know you’re different. Just like Courfeyrac is different for you. This is what we do, we love others but always come back. Maybe it’s just how we’re made, always loving too much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this?! An update?!   
> I'm so sorry you guys, for some reason I've had a really hard... Almost year... With this story but I really do hope to get it back on track. I know where it's going it's just getting there!


	11. Golden Glows and Silvered Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s quiet in the flat, and he’s buzzing faintly. There’s a warm glow about him, as he stretches out on the sofa bed. Outside the sun is just beginning to set, so the small box of the flat is bathed in a golden light that matches the candle flames behind his eyes, the gentle warm bath that washes over his limbs and to the tips of his fingers and the halo of his hair.  
> The pavement is cold under his feet, not yet storing the warmth of the day beneath its slabs. The change rattles in his hands, against the coin slot on the phone and he hears the steady drone as he balances the receiver on his shoulder. The numbers beep slowly as his fingers work over them.  
> Ringing into infinity. A click.  
> “Hello?”  
> “Courfeyrac! Hey, it’s Jehan. Did you uh… Want to come over?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for drug use and parental homophobia

It’s quiet in the flat, and he’s buzzing faintly. There’s a warm glow about him, as he stretches out on the sofa bed. Outside the sun is just beginning to set, so the small box of the flat is bathed in a golden light that matches the candle flames behind his eyes, the gentle warm bath that washes over his limbs and to the tips of his fingers and the halo of his hair.  
Jehan sighs happily, feeling the steady rise of his chest in slow motion, and breathes out in a steady stream of velveteen. He rolls to face the window, to look up at the sky and the pink tinged clouds. But rolling over brings him to the cold side of the bed, Grantaire’s side, a shock against his skin. It draws the warmth out through the cotton wool wrappings. The clouds remind him of the clouds building high above the hills around his village, then cracking into brassy sun as it set.  
It makes him homesick, usually when he’s longing for rolling green hills he and Grantaire sit down and talk, or Grantaire paints him tiny miniatures of what he describes. But he’s not here now is he, he’s gone out and told Jehan, with a gentle kiss on the forehead, that he’d be back in the morning. That’s why he’d gone out, that’s why he’s here now, lying as the warmth under his skin seeps out like lifeblood and he falls a little.  
The clouds rush by, go grey.  
The pavement is cold under his feet, not yet storing the warmth of the day beneath its slabs. The change rattles in his hands, against the coin slot on the phone and he hears the steady drone as he balances the receiver on his shoulder. The numbers beep slowly as his fingers work over them.  
Ringing into infinity. A click.  
“Hello?”  
“Courfeyrac! Hey, it’s Jehan. Did you uh… Want to come over?”

Jehan rocks nervously from toes to heels, heels to toes as he waits by the door. Time is still lagging, the journey taking far longer than he knows it actually is. There’s a sharp three beat knock on the door, and he was so lost in thoughts that he jumps, hand moving through water for the handle. He grips the brass, exhales, then opens the door with a grin.  
“Hey!”  
“Hello…” Courfeyrac has a nice smile, he always looks pleased to see you but this time he pulls his lip back between his teeth in suggestion of a different type of pleasure. Jehan looks up, watching his eyes and getting lost. Their lips meet for a brief, deep kiss. “I brought some wine and pizza.”  
“Oh, going all Italian tonight are we?”  
“Well…” Courfeyrac takes a step inside so they can close the door on the draughty stairs. “The wine’s from California but let’s pretend that was the idea. Amoré and all that.”  
“I’ll grab some glasses.”  
They eat from the box, holding a mug of wine each, which only means they drink more. Courfeyrac chats about his day, about the rather unusual couple he’s been trying to sell to all week and Jehan can’t help but chuckle along as he tells the story.  
“Where’s Grantaire tonight then?” Courfeyrac asks, wiping his fingers and sitting back against the back of the sofa. Jehan pauses where he’s bringing his final slice to his lips, the question takes him by surprise and his brain takes a moment to process.  
“I don’t know.” He lowers the pizza and his eyes follow it to the box.  
“Enjolras’s?”  
“Probably.”  
So what is the deal with you and Grantaire?” Courfeyrac asks carefully, he obviously noticed Jehan’s disappointment and he curses himself silently for being so affected by it all. He looks back up with a raised eyebrow.  
“Nothing, you really think with him there and you here we’re actually dating?”  
“You just both seem very in tune. I wondered if there was anything.” Courfeyrac shrugs, and Jehan leans back next to him with a small sigh. He decided to tell some of the truth.  
“It’s complicated. It’s not just as simple as us not being together, I’ll grant you that. But we’re not, and we don’t intend to be.”  
“Complicated how?”  
“I’ve never… I’ve not told anyone about that.”  
“You don’t have to.” Like this the truth keeps coming if only he pushes just a little.  
“We were on the street together.”  
“O-Oh…”  
“What? You thought we weren’t living in this place because we had any other choice? Courfeyrac when we first got here the fridge didn’t work and we had to put our milk outside, and then it froze… We’ve burnt our sofa from the hob and, hell we’re sharing a sofa bed.” He smiles, slightly bemused.  
“I just never thought about it like that.”  
“You wouldn’t, you don’t have to. Grantaire and I came here together, we never meant to but you know it happened. And yes we did sleep together, because sometimes you just need someone there. But it was never a relationship, just two people trying to get by.”  
Courfeyrac nods, twisting his glass between his hands as he mulls it over. He looks like he might say something, then sips his drink a moment longer.  
“Why did you leave Ireland..?”  
“Well… Grantaire was trying to find something more, better than what he had. England seemed like the best choice. And from there, London.” He isn’t avoiding the topic, he’s just never spoken about it he tells himself. He only ever told Grantaire, only ever trusted him enough.  
“And you?” It would be so easy, it is so easy.  
“I got kicked out.”  
“Oh Jehan…” Courfeyrac begins, leaning in slightly.  
“Don’t, I left on the best foot I could have done. You know I’d just had my gap year, I’d saved up so it wasn’t a bad position. Just nothing quite worked out.”  
“You took a gap year?” There’s that looks of surprise he was expecting, because people living like this don’t go to uni let alone take gap years.  
“It wasn’t supposed to happen. But, well my Dad wanted me to study law. But me I wanted to study literature, thought I might become a teacher and write on the side.” Jehan smiles fondly. “But Dad would hear nothing of it. He told me to take a year out and think things over, they wouldn’t support me through if I did literature you see, and he knew I couldn’t afford that. And I did think, I really did. I thought I could do law and then teach some other way maybe, and I could still write. But I just couldn’t, not when it came down to it.”  
“What happened then?”  
He can remember it well, remember the kitchen with the pine table that he sits staring at, watching the grain. The words have only just left his mouth and already…  
‘I won’t let you do it, you’re not going to ruin your life with some subject for fairies.’ Jehan stares at him, and he can feel the words bubbling up. He clenches his fists.  
“And you told him?” Courfeyrac asks.  
It just bursts out, petulant.  
‘And what if I am?’  
‘What?’  
‘What if I am… A fairy?’ His father goes red, Jehan keeps pushing. ‘I’m gay Dad.’  
‘If you stop being a child and making up stories then we can sit down and talk-‘  
‘It’s not a story, I am.’  
‘No son of mine is a queer.’  
‘Then I’m not your son anymore.’ He tells him, because it’s been years. Years of hiding, of confession, of worrying about discovery, of trying to be normal. And he knows he can’t do that anymore, because this is him, what he is supposed to be, illegal and sinful or not.  
“You said all that?”  
“It was pretty usual from there, Mum cried and pleaded with both of us but neither of us would back down. He was very strongly catholic, so set in his beliefs and I wasn’t going to stay somewhere where he was going to just glare at me all the time, so I promised I’d be gone by morning. I packed my bag that night and left at 6, before they woke up.”  
“You didn’t say goodbye..?”  
“There was no point, Mum was heartbroken enough and Dad wouldn’t want to see me. I couldn’t cause more drama. So I left, headed for Limerick. I couldn’t find much there and my funds wouldn’t stretch on long hotel stays while I found a job so after a couple of months I set my mind on England. Headed for Cork, got on the first ferry and that’s where I met Grantaire.” He smiles. “London was his idea see. I had no other plans so I figured a companion would be nice. Then well… Things happen.” He won’t go into details about those, he can’t. He can’t detail that slide to Courfeyrac who’s watching him with such caring eyes because those eyes would change so quickly if he knew. “Still, we’re here now. We have jobs, friends…”  
He glances across to Courfeyrac, leaning on one arm. There’s a pause that goes on forever, then Courfeyrac moves forward to kiss him softly.  
“You have me.” He breathes against Jehan’s lips, so quiet Jehan’s almost certain it’s his own mind playing tricks on him. The next kiss is firmer, and then Jehan becomes more insistent. “Mm- The wine.” Courfeyrac murmurs. Jehan pulls back, resting there foreheads together with a quiet laugh.  
“Okay, yeah…” He takes Courfeyrac’s mug and hastily sets the pair aside, then discards the pizza box so he can move to straddle Courfeyrac’s waist. “Better?”  
“Much.” Courfeyrac pulls him into another kiss. Jehan tugs impatiently at Courfeyrac’s tie, fingers working against the silk until it comes off over his head. Courfeyrac has, far more deftly, managed to undo the buttons of his work shirt, the one he didn’t get round to taking off in his earlier daze.  
“First rule remember.” Jehan reminds him, kissing down the newly bared skin of Courfeyrac’s throat. “Shirt stays on.”  
Courfeyrac’s hands trace slowly down the material of the sleeves.  
“Do you… Have scars?” He asks gently, and Jehan pauses, head in the crook between Courfeyrac’s throat and shoulder. “Because it’s okay if you do.” Courfeyrac continues. “I understand.” Jehan lifts his head, pulling his lip back between his teeth. Courfeyrac reaches out to touch his cheek gently, thumb brushing under his eye. For a moment he feels he might cry, because in a moment he’s realised everything he already knew but he doesn’t want to admit it yet. “It’s okay.” Courfeyrac repeats.  
“I know.” Jehan smiles, tilting his head a little so he can kiss Courfeyrac’s palm. Right now he doesn’t want to think, so he does what he always has done and acts. He leans forward to place a lingering kiss on Courfeyrac’s lips, the other’s eyes follow him as he pulls back. “But right now that’s the last thing on my mind.”

Jehan sneaks out before Courfeyrac wakes up, he never sleeps well when he’s in bed with a partner, which is why he usually made his excuses and headed back home, but here he can’t do that. He reaches the point of no return around 5, and lays there listening for a while. The presence is comforting and warm, but he can’t face up to the questions that he know will come after last night. Caring questions he’s not ready to answer yet. So he slides out of the bed, quietly grabbing some clothes and changing in the gloom of the bathroom. He leaves a note about work, then leaves to amuse himself in the time before he can reasonably turn up at the café. The owner looks surprised when he turns up to help open, but doesn’t complain about the extra help.  
He distracts himself for much of the day, taking a short lunch break, chatting avidly to customers as he takes and makes their orders. But then of course 5 rolls around, and he can’t take forever over cleaning the café. He pulls on his jacket and heads into the street, and the thoughts crowd him along with the sound of traffic and people jostling around him.  
He struggles with his keys, leaning his head against the door with a long sigh as he pauses, then tries again. The rattle obviously alerts Grantaire because the door is opened, keys pulled from his fingers and thank god there’s someone here who understands, someone to talk to. He looks up with a smile, it falls as soon as it begins to bloom.  
“Enjolras…”  
“Oh, hey.”  
“What are you… In my flat?” Jehan asks, even though he knows the answer. It just seems prudent, in the shock of the moment, to question this unusual presence answering the door instead of Grantaire.  
“Right, uh, Grantaire and I were going to have dinner and he just left to pick up some food. Sorry, I hadn’t thought-“  
“Can I come in?” He’s snappish, more than he probably should be at seeing his roommates boyfriend, but Enjolras blinks and stands aside anyway. Jehan gets inside, then realises he doesn’t know what he’s doing so is left standing staring at the kitchen. The door clicks shut behind him. They both stand in silence, unsure of what to do or say.  
“Hey, are you okay?” Enjolras asks the silence.  
“I-“ He wants to say of course, brush him off and vanish into the bathroom for a shower, get him to stop asking, wait until he’s gone so he can unload everything on Grantaire. But he finds himself so wound up, so over emotional that he bursts into tears. “No. No…” He buries his face in his hands, roughly rubbing them over his eyes. “Crap this wasn’t supposed to happen.”  
“It’s alright, I can talk.” Enjolras says but all it does is make Jehan turn to face him with a dry ‘tch’.  
“No you can’t. Last time you spoke to me you accused me of causing my best friends overdose. So excuse me if I didn’t want to see you when I feel like this!”  
Enjolras does actually pause at this, lips parting but finding no words. Jehan sighs, sitting heavily on the bed.  
“That… That wasn’t my finest hour and I don’t actually believe what I said. I know I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the better of me and of course you wouldn’t want to talk to me but… You’re upset and I’m here and I want to help.”  
“Really?” Jehan looks up, slightly challenging, Enjolras watches right back and there’s actually concern in his eyes.  
“Yes.” Jehan sighs, sniffs, and gives up, pushing a hand through his hair.  
“Alright.” Enjolras settles next to him, looking unsure of whether to touch him or ask anything. “It’s just… Courfeyrac.”  
“Oh…”  
“See this is why I shouldn’t talk about it with you. You’re his friend- And it’s not actually him, there’s nothing wrong with him. He’s so lovely to me, it’s nearly damn perfect for god’s sake. But last night I just realised-“ He rubs at his arm.  
“What?”  
“I don’t take off my shirt because of my track-marks. And last night he told me if I had scars it was fine, and he was so nice! And I felt so… Guilty.” Enjolras actually does move to take Jehan’s hand gently in his own, and to Jehan’s surprise he lets him.  
“Why, what made you feel guilty?”  
“Because he deserves someone who’s being honest with him. About everything. That I take drugs, how I feel, just- I can’t tell him that, because he will look at me differently and I couldn’t stand that. I couldn’t stand not having this.”  
“You know he wouldn’t judge you, he was so good with me.”  
“You weren’t sleeping with him as far as I know, it’s different.”  
“It’s not Jehan.”  
“Yes it is! You are completely different to me. You needed help, you were willing to accept that help. If I tell him he’ll expect things. Things I can’t do, that I maybe won’t do.”  
“Jehan… Do you,” He pauses, trying to find the right words. “Are you thinking of getting help?”  
“No. No… I don’t need help! I can’t- I can’t…” Jehan sniffs, and actually finds himself burying his face in Enjolras’s shoulder and he’s wearing Grantaire’s hoodie and he smells like him and for a moment he can forget everything and just breathe. “I’m fine, it’s fine.” Enjolras runs a hand down his back gently, and he’s thankful he doesn’t talk, doesn’t say anything that could ruin this. He’s only vaguely aware, somewhere at the back of his mind, of the door opening and words being exchanged and then suddenly he’s being pulled into a tight hug and Grantaire’s holding him tightly and murmuring in the Gaelic that he spent hours teaching Jehan when they had nothing better to do, and he doesn’t ask questions because Grantaire never has to.  
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” He says over and over. “I’ve got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing essays on the 80s and 90s and all it's done is make me want to write this! So have a chapter, we're moving along :D

**Author's Note:**

> So I had lots of possible endings for Less than a Shadow on the Wall, and I wrote a lot of them off but this one stuck so I decided to turn it into it's own story :)  
> Title from The Hourglass by The Morning Of


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